Never the End
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: A collection of S6-related one-shots and tags. #17: Fallout: Sam's sleeping. Some kid left a book in the motel room. After the events of "The Man Who Knew Too Much", Dean reflects.
1. Need

**Author's Note:** I'm going to be using this story to collect S6-related one-shots and tags. They'll probably all, or nearly all, feature Sam and Dean, but they won't be connected in any other way.

Thanks, as usual, go to Cheryl for helpful suggestions and for thinking up a title for this story.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the boys.

**Summary:** Dean pushes just a little too hard in asking Sam what happened when he was in the Cage. Not quite a tag; set a few weeks after the episode.

* * *

**Need**

Bobby heaved a sigh of contentment as he laid the third plate on the kitchen table. This was a situation that he had never imagined being in again: him, Dean and Sam sitting down to dinner together. It gave him an odd sense of peace, of satisfaction, that he would never have admitted to aloud. It just felt _right_.

He heard voices from the front room, Sam and Dean engaged in a good-natured argument about something to do with salt and holy water and salt _in _holy water. As far as Bobby could tell, Dean was claiming that the two cancelled each other out when consumed together, and so the stuff Sam had drunk to prove that he wasn't a demon didn't count, so he had to do it again. Sam seemed to be telling Dean that he would do that _after_ Dean had performed a contortion Bobby was certain was physically impossible.

The old hunter suppressed a chuckle. It was almost like having the old Sam back.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't miss the old Sam. Sure, the new one was smarter and faster and a better hunter, but the old one had been _Sam_. He'd made mistakes and atoned for them, done stupid things because he had more compassion that Bobby had ever seen in any human being before or since, and been the voice of conscience for Dean and Bobby – and, although the man had never admitted it, for John Winchester as well.

Dean came close to it, now – living with Lisa and Ben had mellowed him. But it wasn't the same, because nobody, not even Sammy's brother, could quite be Sammy.

Bobby sighed again, this time sadly. Sam had given up so much to save the world... Who'd have thought that the thing whose loss Bobby would mourn the most would be the impulsive, trusting innocence that had caused half the problems in the first place? He felt like it had been too high a price to pay, partly for Sam but also for Dean, who clearly missed his baby brother even more than Bobby did.

"Boys!" Bobby yelled. "Dinner! You can settle it later."

They came in together, still bickering. Bobby rolled his eyes, trying not to smirk when Sam whacked Dean on the arm with a ladle. Dean made a face, but before he could retaliate Bobby pulled his secret weapon out of the oven.

"Pie!" Dean said, looking as thrilled as a six-year-old on Christmas morning.

"Seems to be the only way to keep the peace around here," Bobby grunted, setting it on the table. "Not till you've eaten some actual _food_, Dean!" He batted Dean's hand away from the pie. "Honestly, boy, nobody would believe you're an adult!"

A smile flickered across Sam's face, there and gone almost sooner than Bobby could spot it. All Sam's smiles were like that now: fleeting, no dimples, and with none of the brightness that had characterized baby Sam and toddler Sam and preteen Sam and teenager Sam (when he had bothered to smile) and even adult Sam until the jump and the Cage.

Dean had seen it as well, and he grinned to himself as he busied himself with his plate, making Bobby wonder how many of Dean's antics now had the sole and express purpose of eliciting a response from his brother.

The doorbell rang, startling Bobby out of his thoughts. Sam leapt to his feet. "I'll get it!"

He was out of the room on the word, leaving Bobby and Dean to exchange glances. That had been eager but brusque, Sam and not-Sam, just as everything he did now seemed Sam and not-Sam.

"What was the argument about?" Bobby asked, sitting down at the table. "You don't _really_ think he's a demon?"

"Hell, no!" Dean looked appalled at the thought. "I was just trying to get him to _talk_. He's not said anything about what happened to him downstairs, Bobby. _Nothing. _That can't be good for him. And – and he won't even talk to _me_. It's not like him. I know what it's like – well, I probably don't, because _nothing_ could be like the Cage, but I have a better idea than anyone else – and he won't let me help him!"

"You listen to me, boy," Bobby hissed, leaning forward. "You leave that alone. Believe me, you don't want to go there. Sam's managing. It's not ideal, but it's all we've got."

The sudden crease between Dean's brows said that a new and unpleasant thought had occurred to him.

"You know something I don't?" the younger hunter demanded, suddenly belligerent. "Sam told you anything? Is there something _else_ the two of you have decided I'd be better off not knowing?"

"Calm down," Bobby said gruffly. "Sam's not told me anything. But he came to me first, after he'd seen that you were happy where you were and decided not to bother you – Oh, stop glaring! You going to be pissed at us about that forever? Anyway, Sam came to me. You – you should be _glad_ you didn't see him then, Dean. He was – well, for a few weeks I honestly thought he'd lost his sanity down there. He was starting at noises – any noises, even _crickets_. Couldn't keep a thing down, for a while I was afraid he was going to starve because he brought up everything he ate. He'd get lost in his own head sometimes, wouldn't respond to anyone or anything. And the nightmares... I don't know what he saw, he never told me, but night after night he woke up screaming. Screaming for _you_, usually."

"And you never called me."

"He begged me not to! And he was right. You were happy."

"_Happy? _What, the two of you think I'm some kind of psycho or something? Or that I hate my brother? How did you imagine I'd be happy –"

"That's not the point. We did. Maybe we were wrong, but we thought we were acting for the best. Hell, every time I suggested calling you, Sam practically had a panic attack. He was falling to pieces, I think he was actually losing his mind. Then your granddaddy came by and had a chat with him. Sorted him out a bit, settled him down, but it also made him... well, _this_."

"You should've called me," Dean insisted. "If I'd made him talk then, none of this might have happened."

"You might have made it worse. You didn't see him, Dean. I've never seen anyone like that – _anyone_. Whatever Lucifer did to him down there, it messed with him in a way I can't even begin to imagine. Don't think you can, either. But I _saw_ him, and I'm telling you, this is a can of worms you don't want to open. Just let it go. Sam's holding himself together. That's what's important."

"Oh, you call _this_ holding himself together?"

"Dean, you have to remember – Sam! Who was it?"

"Some friend of yours." Sam came into the room, giving no indication of how much of their conversation he'd overheard or even whether he'd heard anything at all. "Something about a woman he's got in a Devil's Trap. He says he lives a couple of miles down the road. I can go sort it out for you if you –"

"No, I'll do it myself. Must be Tom. You've got enough to handle right now, and it's been a while since I've done anything useful. He still around?" Sam nodded. "OK, I'll go deal with it. Shouldn't take me too long. You boys finish your dinner."

With another soft sigh, because however little he wanted to admit it he _had_ been looking forward to his first dinner with his boys in years, Bobby got to his feet and left the room.

* * *

Sam was aware of Dean's sidelong glance as he sat down. He tried to ignore it. He had ignored Bobby's meaningful looks and well-intentioned hints, ignored his grandfather's probing questions, ignored his cousins' occasional prods.

It was _bloody_ difficult to ignore Dean. Dean was _Dean_, the big brother he'd idolized and looked up to all his life, the big brother he still adored and would do anything for.

And right now, he reminded himself firmly, the best thing for Dean was for Sam not to think about it. Things were going to hell again, maybe even worse than before because now they didn't know exactly what they were dealing with and this time there was one single source of evil that they could concentrate on fighting. Dean needed a hunter, a _partner_, not the quivering wreck that Sam knew he would turn into if he let himself think about it.

_Fire burning pain screaming –_

_NO._ Sam suppressed the memory firmly, buried it deep. It wasn't easy, especially with Dean giving him a look that was all but begging him to spill.

It was ironic, really. All his life he'd been the one to beg Dean to talk, to bully, threaten or cajole him into telling Sam how he felt and what he feared. Now, when Dean was finally willing and eager and actually prepared to voluntarily initiate serious conversations, Sam couldn't.

There was no point, in any case. He wished he could explain that to Dean without thinking about _it_, because then Dean might stop asking. This wasn't something that could be fixed by talking. The only way to deal with it was not –

_Agony burning freezing –_

To –

_Fire torture Dean please –_

Think.

Sam forced the memories down, away, to the same dark corner of his mind where he'd pushed the urge to run to the aid of people who were past help.

Dean had given up looking at him and was now concentrating on his dinner. _Thank God. _His big brother seemed eager to get to that pie. Sam shook his head the tiniest bit as he reached for his own fork. He wasn't particularly hungry – he seldom was, now – but he knew Dean would make a fuss if he tried to skip dinner.

"That's my boy," Dean said, in the same casually encouraging tone he had used when he had cheered for Sam's first kiss.

The memory brought a sudden lump to Sam's throat. He hastily put a forkful of beef in his mouth and chewed, hoping his brother hadn't noticed anything. Nothing tasted good anymore, and Bobby's casserole, which Dean was inhaling with the enthusiasm of a starving man seeing food for the first time in weeks, tasted like ashes –

_Ashes fire fire ashes hot –_

_NO. No no no no no. _Why the hell was this so goddamned _difficult_? He'd been managing friggin' _fine _until Dean had decided to turn into a new-age self-help guru and keep encouraging Sam to _share_.

Sam huddled in on himself, seeing Dean's hurt look out of the corner of his eye but too tired to do anything about it. He was bone-weary, although he couldn't admit it to anyone. It was exhausting to suppress memories that were clamouring to fill his mind, exhausting to spend day after day pretending he was all right. Having Dean around made it worse; it had been laughably easy to fool Samuel and his cousins and not too difficult to persuade Bobby to stop asking questions. Dean wouldn't be fooled and wouldn't back off.

Dean's concern made it infinitely worse. There were times when there was nothing Sam wanted to do more than to tell Dean everything, let his big brother hold him and comfort him and tell him everything would be all right. And Sam knew that if Dean said so, it would make him feel better, because years of blind trust couldn't be erased.

But that would only be shifting the burden from his shoulders to his brother's. Sam couldn't do that. Dean had suffered too much. Sam wasn't going to add to it.

"Come on, Sam, _eat_," Dean said suddenly. "Brood later. It'll taste even worse if you let it get cold."

_Taste even worse?_

How could Dean know that everything tasted the same to Sam now, like burnt-out cinders?

Dean's eyes met his, gentle and compassionate. A light hand rested on his knee, squeezed, and was gone.

"Eat, Sammy."

And Sam pushed another forkful into his mouth, because he knew seeing him eat would let Dean enjoy his pie in peace.

"Apple?" Sam asked as Dean cut himself a slice.

"Yeah. Bobby knows I hate cherry."

Their eyes met over the table. Dean hadn't always hated cherry pie; he'd loved it until he'd walked into a diner to see a bunch of dead people, no Sam, and a lone piece of cherry pie on the counter. Was that when their lives had started to go to hell?

"You can have mine."

"Don't be an idiot," Dean said around a mouthful of pie. "You need to eat _something_. All that muscle you're always working on building up has to come from _somewhere_, genius."

"I don't think apple pie helps you build muscle."

Dean gave him an eloquent look, all disbelief and raised eyebrows and _When did you turn into such a wet blanket?_ Then he went back to his pie, devouring it with a dedicated enthusiasm that made Sam think of all the times they'd eaten pie together _before_.

Sam managed two more forkfuls before Dean finished his pie and cut himself a second slice.

"Not yours," he said cheerfully. "Bobby's. People go off to exorcise demon bitches instead of hanging around for dinner, they don't get pie."

Sam grinned. He couldn't help it. That was so ridiculous and so typical and so _Dean_. He felt a surge of affection for his brother, who, despite everything, was the reason he managed to stay sane. He couldn't have done it for Bobby or his family or even for himself. He didn't know if he could have done it for Jessica. But he could do it for Dean, because Dean needed him.

"Lisa call?" he asked.

"Yeah, last night. She's OK – Ben's adjusted well, making friends in the new school. She's having fun living with her sister."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Sam..."

"_No._"

"C'mon, Sammy." Dean's voice was persuasive and concerned, with just enough pleading to make Sam feel like a bastard for refusing to talk. "You're the one who likes to talk. You really think this is the best way to deal with it?"

"Dean, I said no."

"At least tell me why it bothers you so much."

"Dean, _please_."

"Did he do something to Adam? Is that it?"

"No." Sam swallowed, trying to turn away from the vast dark burning emptiness that was filling his mind. _No no no no no. _"No. He didn't do anything to Adam."

"Was Adam there?" Dean sounded like he thought he was on the verge of a major breakthrough. Sam couldn't imagine why, and he wished Dean would stop because he couldn't keep the memories down with his brother trying so hard to dredge them up. "Did you see him?"

"No." Why was Sam's throat so dry? He reached out blindly, felt a glass pushed into his hand, and drank the contents so quickly he nearly choked. "I didn't – he wasn't there." _No Adam. Just the darkness, burning and freezing at the same time, endless and boundless and empty. And the pain and –_

Sam flinched, scrubbing at his face. _Stop thinking stop thinking stop thinking –_

"Sammy?" Sam could feel himself shaking with the horror of it, of living it all again, of enduring more of Lucifer's inventive cruelty. "Sammy, are you OK?" There were hands on his shoulders, warm and solid and familiar, but it was too late. It was filling his brain, now, and he could hear Lucifer laughing over Sam's own gut-wrenching sobs, the sobs that came when he was too hoarse to scream any more. "Sam, talk to me." Sam couldn't talk, didn't remember how to talk. His throat had seized up. "Sammy, please. What did that bastard _do_ to you?"

As though the last word had opened a floodgate, Sam's head was suddenly full, _too _full, full of Lucifer and tortures that human beings couldn't imagine – shouldn't _have _to imagine – and the memory of being trapped inside his own head, of Lucifer's revenge –

Sam tried to ask for his brother. What came out was a choked sob. He could feel himself getting light-headed and he couldn't imagine why. Someone was shaking him so hard it _hurt_, shouting something that sounded like his name, and the voice was so familiar, so comforting, and so agonizingly far away.

Sam knew he wasn't breathing. He could feel the tightness in his chest. He tried to, but he couldn't seem to remember how. He couldn't think. The pain was too great, filling every particle of his being, Lucifer's voice promising to double it every day until the end of an eternity whose scale Sam couldn't begin to comprehend. The darkness was too thick, too heavy, too oppressive, and the silence when Lucifer stopped talking and Sam was too exhausted to scream was –

* * *

"Sam, breathe! _Breathe!_" Dean shook his brother, knowing it probably wasn't helping but not knowing what else he _could_ do. He had been expecting Sam to refuse, maybe snap at him. He hadn't been prepared for this.

Sam was on his knees, deadweight in Dean's arms, his lips slowly turning blue as he struggled for breath.

_Idiot!_ _Bobby warned you not to push. Actually, screw Bobby, couldn't you tell that you shouldn't be pushing? Don't you know the kid well enough by now?_

"Come on, Sammy," he said desperately. "You can breathe. I know you can. Just – here." He made a grab for Sam's hand and held it to his chest, so that Sam could feel the rise and fall of his lungs. "Just breathe with me, Sam. Can you do that?" Sam didn't respond, didn't give any sign that he'd even _heard_, and Dean felt like the ground was falling out from under him. "_Please_, Sam."

Sam choked on a breath, wheezed, and maybe he got about an ounce of air from that but it wasn't enough for a great big Sasquatch like him. Dean held him closer, and was reaching for his phone when the door opened and Bobby stood in the doorway.

"Dean, what –?"

"Start the car. He needs a hospital."

Dean didn't remember much of the ride; it was a blur of Bobby honking angrily at passersby, people shaking fists as he narrowly avoided running them over and Sam unresponsive in Dean's arms in the backseat, managing only the occasional gasping breath. It seemed to take forever, but Sam was still there when Bobby pulled up outside the emergency room door, and Dean held him closer for just a moment before relinquishing him to the paramedics who hurried up with a gurney.

Dean ran in after them and was stopped by an efficient-looking nurse who asked him questions he'd answered a hundred times.

_No known allergies. No history of cardiac trouble. No, ma'am, he doesn't smoke. Drinking in moderation. No, ma'am, he is NOT an alcoholic. Of course there's a need to get upset! My brother can't breathe and you're standing around asking me stupid questions!_

The wait was mercifully short. The doctor who came to speak to them was about fifty and had the kind of calming presence that Dean liked to see in a hospital. No need to increase chances of demonic possession in a place that already had plenty of scope for supernatural activity.

"Yes, he's physically fine," he said, in answer to Dean's imploring look. "I have him on oxygen for now, just to be safe. He seems a little skittish. Did something happen to upset him?"

"Umm... Yeah. Yeah, he got a bit of a fright. Thought he saw something in the cellar," Dean mumbled, not meeting Bobby's eyes.

"Oh." The doctor frowned at Dean, not _quite_ in disbelief, but not really buying it, either. "He thought he saw something in the cellar. I see. Do you have any idea just _what_ he thought he saw and why it upset him so much?"

"I..." Dean was irritated to feel himself flush. He'd never had trouble talking his way through hospital visits, and he didn't know where _this_ doctor got off almost disbelieving him on the subject of Sam. "I'm not sure. He wasn't very... coherent... And we were in a hurry to get him to the hospital. I'll check it out later, maybe once I've had a chance to talk to Sam about it. Is he... Can I see him? How is he?"

"As I said, I have him on oxygen, but that's just a precaution. He's breathing on his own. What worries me is that he's unresponsive. He didn't answer any of my questions, not even his name. But when I tried to get near him with a stethoscope he got so scared he nearly had a second attack. I don't know if it's a good idea for you to talk to him now. I'm sure you mean well, but you could wind up upsetting him more. It might bring on another attack."

"I won't upset him." At the doctor's sceptical look, Dean added, "Look, I know you're just trying to do your job, but Sam's my brother. Let me talk to him. I can help."

The doctor frowned, thinking, and finally nodded. "You can see him, but only in my presence. If he starts to get upset or looks like he's going to have a panic attack, you leave him alone and get out of the room, and then you don't go in again until I tell you it's OK."

"Fine," Dean said promptly. "I won't upset him, I promise."

"All right. Make sure you don't. And by the way, you might want to get rid of the _thing_ in your basement. Once might be an accident, but I don't want to see him back here because of it a second time." There was a pause, and a hard edge to the doctor's voice when he spoke again. "I hope we understand one another."

"We do," Bobby put in quickly, before Dean could say something regrettable. "Can we take him home now?"

"I wouldn't recommend it. You were lucky the first time. If it happens again, he may not survive the trip to the hospital. It's best to let us keep him for observation overnight."

Dean had a sudden vision of Sam, alone in a dark hospital room, surrounded by beeping instruments, with nobody to wake him up if he had a nightmare, nobody to sit on the edge of his bed and talk to him until he dozed off again.

"No." He was _not _leaving his baby brother in the hands of strangers, however well qualified they were. "We're taking him home. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Dean," Bobby began warningly, but Dean cut in.

"We are _not_ leaving him here. You heard the doctor. He's physically fine. He'll be better off at home."

Bobby's resigned expression was acquiescence. The doctor glanced from one of them to the other and shook his head.

"I won't stop you, but if you _do_ take him, it'll be against medical advice. Also... Well, you may have a problem getting him to go with you. As I said, he isn't reacting well to physical contact."

"I'll handle that."

The doctor led them into the examination room. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed – unsupported, which was a good sign – fumbling at the oxygen mask that covered his nose and mouth. A nurse hovered in the background, not near enough to be threatening, but ready to help if he needed it.

"Let me talk to him," Bobby muttered to Dean. Dean rolled his eyes, but stayed back as Bobby approached the bed. "Sam. You OK?" Sam looked at Bobby, eyes going wide. Bobby stopped short, waited a minute to give Sam time to get used to him, and then took a step forward. Sam scrambled back. "Sam?" Bobby waited, but when Sam didn't respond he shrugged and turned to Dean. "Maybe we should just let him spend the night here."

"Like hell we will." Dean ignored the doctor's protest and Bobby's warning arm and closed the distance between himself and Sam in two strides. Sam looked at him, as terrified as a lost child, and Dean realized that that was exactly what his brother was. Lost. "It's OK, Sam. I'm here."

Sam slid further back. Dean reached out and grabbed his arms to stop him. For a moment Sam stared at him, eyes like saucers above the mask, and Dean was sure he had screwed up and made it worse –

And then he was staggering under Sam's weight, struggling to breathe with long arms wrapped around his neck, trying to keep Sam from strangling himself with his own oxygen tube as he burrowed into Dean's arms.

"Shh," Dean soothed, pushing Sam firmly onto the bed and arranging him so that his spine could rest in the curve of Dean's arm and his head comfortably on Dean's shoulder. "Shh, it's OK. You're OK. I'm here." He could feel Sam trembling, and he rubbed his back lightly. "Can I take the mask off?" he asked the doctor.

"As long as you can keep him from panicking."

Dean nodded, tugging Sam's hand off the mask. "I'm going to take this off you, Sam, but you need to keep breathing, OK? Can you do that for me?"

There was a mumbled sound that might have been anything, but Sam settled more comfortably against him and that was all the answer Dean needed. He eased the mask off, watching Sam carefully, heaving a sigh of relief when Sam didn't start getting short of breath, grinning when his reaction made his little brother smile.

"That's it," Dean said, not loosening his grip. "That's it, Sammy. We're OK. We're going home. You ready to go?" Stiffness to the set of Sam's head, and Dean understood. "We don't have to talk, Sammy. I won't ask you anything. You don't have to tell me anything until you're ready. I promise. We'll do it the way you want, as slowly as you like. OK?"

A nod, and then Sam was burrowing himself even closer. Dean sighed, murmuring soft words of comfort and meeting Bobby's eyes over the top of his brother's head.

He wouldn't ask. He couldn't risk Sam dying on him just because Dean was a clumsy idiot when it came to getting people to talk. He couldn't help thinking that Sam would have done better. If their roles had been reversed, Sam would have known how to get Dean talking without scaring him so badly that he wound up in the emergency room.

Sam muttered something into his jacket, Dean responded automatically, and then he was helping Sam up, supporting him to the wheelchair that the doctor insisted they use ("Hospital policy. We don't want to get sued.") and settling him into the backseat of Bobby's car.

Dean climbed in next to his brother, knowing that the next morning they would be pretending that this had never happened, realizing for the first time that he might never really be able to understand what Sam had gone through in the Cage. He had seen the torment in his brother's eyes, seen the evidence of Lucifer's malice, seen a desolation that made him want to open the Cage again just so he could have the pleasure of sending Lucifer back to it.

But he would be with Sam, he promised himself silently. He might not be able to understand, but he would give Sam whatever he could, and maybe it would be enough.

Maybe.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? I should stop writing tags? Please review!

Also, I hope everyone has fun with Episode 2!


	2. Beneath the Surface

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Nothing.

I think, unless otherwise specified, it's safe to assume than the credit for any title goes to Cheryl.

Thanks to Cain-chan, Klutzygirl33, CeCe Away, I love my knght in red, Darkaina, cold kagome, MaraJade, IritIlan, lunapia, Katy M VT, JustShyOfMe, Cricket05, snlover10, phyllis0016, BranchSuper and SciFi Girl for the reviews!

**Summary:** Sam's alone after the events of _Two and a Half Men_. Thinking.

* * *

**Beneath the Surface**

_What am I turning into?_

Scratch that. Wrong question. If I'm going to spend a sleepless, angst-filled night, I might as well torture myself over the right problem.

_What have I turned into?_

This is everything I've always hated, everything I promised myself I wouldn't be. This is not being able to look at myself in the mirror and _know_ that I should be _up here_ and not _down there_. This is... terrifying.

I should never have gone back for Dean. I _knew_ it was a bad idea. I should have sent someone else – Samuel, or Mark or Christian. Or Bobby. If I can't trust Bobby to make sure Dean's all right, I can't trust anyone. I should have sent Lisa the antidote by the freaking _mail_ before I went there myself. I promised myself I'd leave him alone and I wouldn't screw up his normal life.

And then I jumped at the chance to see him. Gwen _offered_ to go. But...

But I needed Dean.

No, that's not strictly accurate, either.

I _wanted_ Dean. I wanted him the way I did when I was four and I had nightmares and I ran to Dean's bed because he could make them go away. I wanted Dean – I _want _Dean – and I know it's not possible, not anymore, but that just makes it worse. I can't deal with this – I _can't_. It's too difficult. I can't make myself get up every morning and pack my gear and go hunting as though everything's fine and Lucifer isn't laughing in my head and I can't still _feel _it and _hear _it and –

I want my big brother.

_God_,I sound like a petulant six-year-old! Dean's got a life. He's got a life. He's got a family. He's got people who actually make him happy as opposed to a brother who seems to find a new way to upset him every week. I need to be grateful for that, grateful that at least _one_ of us has managed to walk away from hunting.

I just never thought that if I ever _did _tell him I was back, he'd...

I've been such an _idiot_. What did I expect, that I'd go to him and he'd be thrilled to see me and he'd just _forget_ everything I did? Forget everything I _am_? We were on the road together for five years and I gave him five years of _hell_, first with visions and powers and being immune to demon viruses and _then _he had to sell his soul to bring me back from the dead and then there was Ruby and then he died and then he came _back_ but things just kept getting worse until –

Yeah. And I thought he'd be eager to get back on the road with me the second I suggested it. I mean, I thought he'd freaking _trust_ me. Who was I kidding?

Lucifer was right. Dean's happier without me.

Why wouldn't he be?

It's not like it's even a difficult decision. What do I even have to offer him? The chance to ride around with me shooting monsters and maybe get thrown into a bookshelf or have his head knocked in every couple of weeks. Oh, and a hunting partner who might melt down on him unexpectedly because some random sight or sound might trigger memories of –

_Hell. Pain. Burning, slicing, scraping, biting, searing –_

_No._

I have _got_ to learn how to stop doing that. It can't be that difficult. I understand that there are seven billion people in the world who go about their daily business without even once being reduced to quivering wrecks because they imagine that they're in Lucifer's Cage.

OK, you know what? I need to think about it. That's what I need to do. It would be best if I had someone to talk to, but I can't talk to Samuel or Gwen or Christian. I can't tell Dean anything. It might upset him, and – I _have_ to be honest with myself now – I don't want to see that _look_ in his eyes again. I spent a year and a half seeing it regularly, and three years before that catching him in it in his less guarded moments.

It's the look that says he's scared of me, scared of what I might become, of what I _have_ become. It's the look that says I can't be his brother because...

Well. He's a regular person, now. He lives a normal life. Goes to work, has barbecues, watches football games. If I drive by at the right time I might even see him handing out muffins and juice after soccer practice. And me... I'm not even sure _what _I am anymore. I'm definitely not something Dean needs near him or his family.

So, yeah. Talking to Dean's out of the question.

Talking to Bobby?

No. It's just... No. If I can't talk to Dean...

I need to deal with this one on my own.

I just wish I knew how.

Right, that's it. Enough self-pity. I'm really the last man on earth with _any _right to feel sorry for himself, considering that I brought most of my problems on myself. I need to think about it, think my way through it, and then it'll be over. I won't be scared of remembering. And when I have to expend less effort on not thinking about it, I'll be able to put more into figuring out what brought me back and why.

OK. Deep breaths. Begin at the beginning.

I saw Dean, bloody and battered. And I was – I don't know – miserable and relieved all at the same time. Miserable because it was the last time I'd be seeing him _ever_, and I had no idea how I was going to face eternity without my big brother. Relieved because he was all right, hurt but all right, and everything was worth it if Dean was all right.

See? That wasn't so bad.

_But you've not even started thinking about the Cage yet. We're still on Dean!_

Oh. Yeah. Right.

So... I fell. It seemed like miles, like Alice's rabbit-hole. I don't know exactly how long I fell. Several hours, at least. And Lucifer was...

He'd been thinking he'd won, when he managed to take over in Detroit. He'd been all set to kill Michael and take over the world or rule Heaven or do whatever the hell it is evil masterminds usually plan on doing. When his plan was unexpectedly shot to bits, he wasn't happy. When Lucifer isn't happy, he likes to let people know about it.

Those first few hours were awful. Just Lucifer and me – I have no idea where Michael went, and whether Adam was even _in _his body – falling through nothing but endless, endless darkness. It took just a few minutes for me to start thinking the falling was going to go on forever. It took a few minutes more than that for Lucifer to decide just where he wanted to start with the torture.

It didn't take him long to wrestle control back from me. He's freakishly strong – well, _obviously_; he's _Lucifer_ – and I only managed to hold him back for as long as it took to jump was because it was the only way to save Dean.

I've experienced physical pain before, but nothing like what Lucifer did... then. It was like my bones were on fire, like –

_Like nightmares made real, like the worst tortures dreamed up by the most perverted minds imaginable doubled and then tripled and then given a life of their own, like –_

_NO._

_Like you deserved it. Like it was a punishment, and a fitting one, for everything you did. Like you were going to be falling through the bottomless blackness forever –_

_Stop thinking about it! Stop thinking about it!_

_Suffering forever –_

_Anything else, damn it! Think about any other freaking thing!_

_Screaming forever for a brother who was never going to come for you –_

_Dean was going to come. Dean would have come. Eventually. He would have found a way._

_Who was probably glad you were out of the way so that he could get on with his life in peace without having to spend all his time cleaning up after you –_

Oh _God_. I should never have let it come to this. If I hadn't – if I'd just had the courage to put a bullet through my brains the _day _I realized I had those stupid psychic abilities...

But I _didn't_, and there's no point worrying about that now. I'm doing the best I can for Dean: staying out of his life. He made it clear enough that he doesn't want to hang around with me – not that I blame him – and now I know he doesn't trust me either.

I mean, seriously, he thought I'd use a baby as bait to catch a shape shifter? A _baby_? First I was just dark, now I'm psychotic?

Dean doesn't need me. He really doesn't. He needed family, once, and I was all there was, but now there's Lisa, and there's Ben, and they love him and they can give him what he wants without a load of other crap to go with it. He doesn't need me – he doesn't _trust_ me –

Hell, _I _don't trust me –

_How_ did I get back to thinking about this?

OK, where were we?

Right, falling. The falling thing went on for a while, like some bizarre nightmare, but eventually it stopped.

The Cage is... strange. Physically, I mean. It changes all the time – I think Lucifer changes it; hell _is_ his domain and he's pretty much all-powerful there, and within the Cage he can do absolutely anything he likes. He can move time back and forth and make yesterday come after tomorrow. He can twist space into a pretzel. The only thing he can't do is open the Cage.

The bounds of the Cage change, too. Sometimes they're bars, like a prison cell, sometimes it's rough stone and the heavy damp smell of a cavern or vault deep in the earth, sometimes fire, sometimes a ring of ice just like Dante's...

Sometimes there's nothing. Nothing, just a vast – I guess you'd call it a floor – stretching out in all directions. Just at the edge of it you see the fires and hear the screaming that indicate the rest of hell. And if you've spent long enough trapped in the Cage, enduring Lucifer hour after hour, day after day, month after month, enduring the kind of torments that the most twisted serial killer in the world wouldn't be able to think up, the rest of hell starts to look pretty damn good.

But of course you can't _go_, because you're scared Lucifer might still be tied to you in some way and walking yourself out will mean walking him out as well.

There are times when I wake up in the middle of the night scared of that same thing, _terrified _that by walking the earth and breathing the air I'm somehow giving Lucifer access to the world, and I know that I should get the freaking rings and – and do it again, because it is not worth the risk. Dean can't have thought of it yet, or he'd have given me the rings himself and told me to do it.

But maybe he _does_ think that. He's asked twice, now – three times if you count the first time he saw me – and I never have an answer to give him because I don't – _freaking_ – _know_.

It bothers him, though.

I'm strongly tempted to just _go_ and get the rings – there isn't a place Dean could've hidden them where I can't track them down – and do it. I can't go through the rest of my life knowing that every time he sees me he's going to be wondering if it's me and if I'm still myself, or...

That's the coward's way out. There's no point doing that until I'm sure that whatever I released when I came out will go back in with me.

And there we go again. Avoiding it. Evading it.

But then this whole line of thought has been avoidance, hasn't it? I don't need to think about the Cage. I mean, suck it up and soldier on, that's the Winchester way, isn't it? It's not ideal, but it's _working_.I can think of a hundred things that it would be more useful to think about.

Except that none of _those_ things can push all _other_ thoughts out of my head.

And the thing that I'm trying really hard not to think about right now is...

Dean. The baby. Dean thought I was using the baby as bait. Dean knows me better than anybody else in the world and he thought I was using a _baby_ as bait.

Have I really turned into _that_?

But I can't – I _can't_. I don't know what to do anymore because nothing freaking _works_. I tried to be compassionate, I tried to get jobs done with no collateral damage, I tried to ask all the questions that needed to be asked – I _tried_. And it backfired on me every _single_ time. There's just no point anymore. Where'd it get me, trying to solve every problem and make sure that no civilians were harmed?

Precisely. Screwed-up mentally, probably not clinically sane anymore, with a brother who can't trust me and doesn't even want to be around me now.

It's not just about me, though. It never was. Maybe I _am_ the selfish bastard Dean thinks I am, but I'm not _that _bad. This is about more than me not feeling frustrated. This is about all the innocent people who were hurt because I had to go around trying to be a freaking _hero _instead of just getting the job done. Everyone who died because I couldn't shoot Jake when I saw him running – even Dean, who might never have made that stupid deal if I hadn't held my shot – and because I made Dean let Gordon go and...

Well. The list goes on. I don't know how many innocent people are dead because of me and I don't want to think about it. I _can't_.

But... I have to stop sometime. If it were just my life I was putting in danger... But it's not. I've had every last attempt to do the right thing backfire and end up killing people or bringing on the Apocalypse instead. I can't go on like this. It isn't working.

And that leaves me just one option.

Even if it makes me hate myself.

A sudden sound breaks into my thoughts, strangely familiar, and I raise my head. It's a car outside – just a car, and a bit muffled through the thick walls.

Except... It _can't _be.

It can't be, but I would know that sound anywhere, and it _is_.

The _Impala_?

* * *

What did you think? Please review!


	3. Fragile Balance

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

Many thanks to Cheryl, for coming through with a title as usual. Thanks to Ava, cold kagome, angeleyenc, pgccubsfan, Klutzygirl33, shimmerinstars, twomom, KKBELVIS, JustShyOfMe, Lucian32, jensengirl4eva, Cainchan and BranchSuper for the reviews!

Summary: Tag to 6.03 (_The Third Man_). Sometimes you're afraid that a year apart can make all the familiar things seem strange.

* * *

**Fragile Balance**

Sam had been certain it would be weird.

And that was totally screwed up.

Because, really, what kind of crazy psycho did you have to be for it to feel weird to be in the one place that you had called home for your entire life, with the one person you cared about more than anyone else, more than Heaven, more than Hell, more than freaking Lucifer and his freaking twisted mind?

Right. _That _kind of psycho.

It was stupid, but Sam was scared. He had been doing a good job holding in his emotions and not letting memories of the Cage overwhelm him – or at least he had been _managing_ – but he didn't think he could keep that up if he was around Dean all the time. His big brother knew him entirely too well. And if he let something slip, if Dean realized just how messed up Sam really was –

Sam sighed.

_Nothing you can do about it. No point worrying about it._

Dean got into the driver's seat. The engine turned over and purred, and although Sam would have given himself to Lucifer again before admitting it, the sound was comforting. It was almost as comforting as –

"You look tired."

"I'm fine, Dean."

Sam didn't need to look to know that Dean was rolling his eyes, and he knew, down to the second, precisely when he would respond.

Right on cue, Dean said, "Yeah, _sure_ you are. Get some sleep. We've got a long drive ahead of us, and I'm pretty sure you're not going to be up half the night angsting about whatever you're pretending didn't happen to you in Hell."

"Dean, I'm fine."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Sam. I'll wake you up if you start having nightmares."

"I never said I was having nightmares."

"I just said I'd wake you up if you had any. Now go to _sleep_."

For the first half-hour Sam kept his eyes stubbornly open, occasionally remarking on passing scenery just to prove that he wasn't asleep. Dean ignored him, twiddled the knobs on the radio, and hummed Metallica under his breath. And Sam, just like he'd done for years, eventually dozed off to the sound of his brother's soft laughter.

"_Do you think I'm going to hurt you, Sam?" Lucifer wasn't in his body, but Sam could __feel__ his voice – that was the only way to describe the words that found their way straight to his brain without having to go through his ears. "I won't have to. You're in Hell in your body – your physical body. That doesn't happen often."_

_Sam tried to glare, but without a place to focus his anger, he couldn't pull it off. He contented himself with flipping a finger in the general direction of __up__._

"_Are you sure it's wise to piss me off? I'm the one who decides whether you're going to spend your time being hacked to pieces everyday or wishing you were being hacked to pieces everyday. For the rest of eternity." A pause, a heartbeat. "Never going to see your big brother again, Sammy. Have you thought about that? He's going upstairs, and __you__ are staying here."_

_Sam's breath caught, and Lucifer chuckled._

"_I felt the same way, you know, when my father cast me down. In the beginning I actually kind of missed Michael and Gabriel. Of course, when I realized that Michael was actually __happy__ that I was gone... Well, things changed. They're very similar, you know, Michael and your brother Dean – far more similar than you and I are. Both self-righteous morons who think they get to decide what's good and what's evil."_

"_Shut up."_

"_So the little viper __does__ have fangs. I was wondering. Well, deny it all you like, Sam. It's still true."_

"_Shut __up__."_

"_All Dean needed was someone to reaffirm his belief in his own infallibility. Castiel did it for him. How long after he first met Castiel did your brother stop trusting you, Sam?" This time Sam managed to glare. "Still, that doesn't matter to you, does it? Nothing matters as long as Dean's OK." There was a shift in the air, almost as though someone was sitting on the ground next to him. "How long do you think it'll take him to forget you, Sam? He's young. In a few years you'll be just a vague memory. In a few more, not even that."_

_Sam shut his eyes._

"_Oh, Sam, you don't look like you're enjoying yourself. I'm sorry. I'm being a bad host. I shouldn't be __encouraging__ your unhappiest thoughts. I should be __distracting__ you from them." Sam shivered. "Of course, the distraction will be unpleasant too. Brace yourself."_

_Sam screamed._

Sam woke up.

There was no screaming, no unending cacophony of darkness and light, no celestial voice vibrating in his skull. Only Dean's breathing and a hand on his knee.

Sam looked around. Dean had pulled over onto a gravel shoulder. The road was deserted. From the angle of the shadows, he'd been asleep less than half an hour. Sam shivered, and felt the hand on his knee squeeze lightly before it was lifted off.

"Nightmare, Sam."

"Thanks."

"I'm an awesome brother."

Sam smiled.

It was close to midnight when they finally pulled up outside a motel. Sam waited outside while Dean went into the main cabin to get them a room. A few minutes later he came back, twirling the keys in his hand. He tossed them to Sam.

"Got the bags? Let's go. Last cabin at the end. I swear, Sammy, next time I'm going to tell them we want a king-sized bed just to see if they're willing to believe _that_."

"_Dean!_"

"What? I'm just curious. I mean, everyone always assumes we're gay. I can hardly make it worse."

"Dean."

"Sam."

"You're a jerk."

"Bitch."

"Soccer mom."

"Just for that, I get first shower."

An hour later, Sam towelled his hair dry as he slipped out of the bathroom. It had been months – _years_, if you counted his time in _that_ place – since he'd shared a bedroom with anyone... Sure, there had been the occasional girl, but they'd been transient, brief and gone in the morning.

Sam knew it should feel weird to walk into a dark room to the sound of even breathing and the sight of a sleeping form in the bed near the door. He knew he should be worried, because it would be difficult to keep pretending he was unaffected by the Cage if Dean witnessed his nightmares. He knew he couldn't keep up the act, not with Dean, not for long, and he knew he should be concerned.

Sam wriggled into boxers and a t-shirt, and because the lights were out and the blinds drawn and his bedcover pulled back invitingly, he decided to skip the research and try to get some sleep. He heard Dean laugh as he got into bed.

"Don't tell _me_ big brothers don't know best."

"Shut up and go to sleep, jerk."

"Bitch."

"Dean."

"What, my _name_ is an insult now? Nice, Sam."

Sam grunted, found a comfortable spot on his pillow, and shut his eyes, letting himself soak in the familiarity of the motel room and the smell of Dean's aftershave and the sound of his brother muttering something involving _Sam_ and _idiot_.

Maybe it was like riding a bike. You never really forgot.

* * *

Dean had been certain it would be weird.

He was used to Lisa, to smelling her perfume, light and tangy, and the herbal aroma of her shampoo. He'd spent a year persuading himself that listening to her soft breathing at night wasn't an insult to Sam's memory. He had been sleeping in a familiar bed, in a _home_, and...

Well, it was bound to be a _little_ weird.

Dean turned out the light and pulled Sam's bedcovers back while his brother was in the shower. He was damned if he was going to let Sam add to the weirdness with his insomnia. It had been a long day and a long drive and sleep was going to happen, whether Sam liked it or not.

Dean shut his eyes, but he didn't go to sleep.

He heard the bathroom door open and the soft padding of Sam's footsteps. He half-expected to have to suppress a reflexive urge to grab the knife under his pillow, but instead he found himself relaxing even more as he heard Sam moving around getting dressed. There was a pause, a change in Sammy's breathing that meant he was thinking, and then the creak of the next bed and the soft rustle of the bedcovers being drawn up.

It was so not weird that Dean couldn't help laughing.

"Don't tell _me_ big brothers don't know best."

"Shut up and go to sleep, jerk."

"Bitch."

"Dean."

That response was so exasperated, so _Sammy_, that Dean almost laughed again. "What, my_ name _is an insult now? Nice, Sam."

Sam's breathing evened out fairly quickly. Dean, prepared to have to shake his brother awake if he started to dream of all the things that he claimed weren't bothering him _at all_, tried not to doze off. Normally he wouldn't have worried – his sixth sense always woke him when Sam was in trouble. But it had been over a year, and you couldn't be too careful. Not with Sam.

Sam was different, but that wasn't what bothered Dean. I mean, _obviously_ the kid was different. He'd spent time in Lucifer's freaking _Cage_ with the Devil himself. Dean would have been more concerned if he'd come back from that completely unchanged.

No, what bothered Dean was the game face Sam was putting up. Dean knew his brother, had known him all his life. Sam wasn't made for game faces: he was too gentle, too conscientious, and that part of his nature ran too deep for it to have changed just because of a year spent hunting on his own.

_Yeah, tell me another one, Sam._

Sam had never been good at bottling up his emotions. It had been the Winchester way, but not _Sam's_ way. Sam had always had to talk, argue, yell, storm off, come back, wake Dean up to pour out his heart in the middle of night: _that_ was Sam.

This new thing, claiming that nothing was bothering him and he hadn't been affected by Hell? The only reason Dean hadn't already called bullshit was that he wanted Sam to open up on his own. He was traumatized, probably more scared than he wanted to admit, and nothing was going to be gained by pushing him before he was ready. Sam needed time, and space, and the knowledge that when he _did_ need to spill, Dean would be right there waiting to listen.

Until then, Dean would just have to live with the new badass hunter who'd taken his brother's place. He wasn't exactly _complaining_, because seeing doors kicked in was a lot more awesome to watch when the kicker was twelve feet tall, but he kind of missed his little brother.

Dean had had his own difficulties in the past few years: not trusting Sam had been so much worse than not trusting his brother. It had been not trusting his _conscience_. He had hated that, and he had taken it out on Sam, angry with Sam for putting him in that position, angry with himself for letting it happen.

It didn't matter. It was over. Maybe he'd have to endure Hunter Extraordinaire Winchester for a few days – or weeks – but Sammy was there underneath it. Dean had no doubt about that.

Dean fell asleep.

He woke to sunlight streaming through the window, vaguely aware of having had a disturbed night. His Sammy-sense had been as accurate as ever, and at least four times he had jerked awake in time to hear Sam tossing restlessly. He had prodded Sam awake each time and assured him that it was only a dream and he was safe. He didn't know how much of it Sam remembered: his brother had never woken fully, just roused enough to slur Dean's name, mumble something unintelligible, and doze off again.

But Sam seemed to be up now: the bed next to Dean's was empty.

Dean stretched and sat up just as the door opened. Sam came in carrying a paper bag and two cups of coffee.

"Doughnuts?" Dean asked, not really hopeful. With his luck this new Sam would give him a lecture about food groups and make him eat shredded lettuce or something like that. He should probably be grateful that he was even getting coffee.

"Jelly." Sam tossed the bag into Dean's lap, making a face that was more amusement than irritation. "Your arteries are going to clog up."

"Bite me." Dean pulled out a doughnut, not even attempting to keep the jelly off his fingers, and ripped into it.

Weird? This? Waking up to Sam giving him doughnuts and a bitchface and a warning about how his eating habits were going to lead him to an early grave?

Dean chewed, watching Sam sip his latte and pore over a book. He wouldn't have exchanged this for all the barbecues and high-school football games in the entire country. _This_ was normal. This was _perfect_.

* * *

I just _had_ to give the boys a moment. ;-) What did you think? Please review.


	4. Eclipse of the Moon

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Unfortunately.

Many thanks to Cheryl for advice and support! Thanks to Katy M VT, cold kagome, angeleyenc, criminally charmed, JustShyOfMe, yenneffer, Klutzygirl33, Lucian32 and godsdaughter 77 for the reviews.

Summary: Tag to 6.05 (_Live Free or Twihard_). Sam is alone in his own head, and nothing is what it seems.

* * *

**Eclipse of the Moon **

Sam knows suspicion. God knows he's seen more than enough of it to recognize it.

He knows it's there now.

It's rolling off Dean in waves. He can hear it – sense it – almost _taste_ it in a sudden cold sourness that seems to fill the air between them. Dean thinks –

What does Dean think? Does he guess the truth?

Does he _know_?

Does Dean _really_ believe Sam stood by and watched him get turned so that they could find out what was inside the vampires' nest?

Sam feels a shiver coming on, and suppresses it, suppresses the guilt and fear and hurt and pain and _everything_, because the last couple of days have been another reminder of how dangerous it is to let himself feel too much.

_Lucifer..._

The name in his head is a whisper, soft, caressing, and Sam just barely keeps himself from whimpering with the memories it brings back. Cold... Darkness... and the voices.

The _voices_.

Sam doesn't know whose voices they were, although he has a couple of guesses. Whispers of murder, of betrayal, of blood on the streets of Jerusalem, of a still, huddled figure on the floor of the Roman Senate –

This time Sam _does_ shiver, and Dean casts a startled glance in his direction. Sam ignores it, staring straight ahead, firmly pushing his emotions, down, away, where he can't reach them. He _can't_ let himself feel. He let his guard slip earlier, just for a fraction of a second, and that was all it had taken for the vampire to turn Dean. He can't let it happen again. He _can't_.

Lucifer is brilliant.

Sam has to admit that. He achieved so much with one single action. Sam can't let himself feel, can't give himself the luxury of dealing with what happened in the Cage in anything resembling a normal, healthy way. Sam has to ignore the urge, as strong as his craving for demon blood ever was, to tell Dean everything. Sam has to deny himself the comfort only his big brother could possibly give him. Sam has to suppress everything he is, every part of him that's truly _him_, and be the kind of ruthless, emotionless hunter he always despised.

Sam has to think of Lucifer a lot more than he would like to, because, no matter how hard he tries, that's the one thing he can't forget.

With everything else – _everything_ else – his mind is like a supernatural colander, flickering in and out of existence, thoughts, feelings and memories slipping through his fingers like water, making shy appearances if he stops thinking about them, but vanishing as soon as he tries to catch one. There are mornings when he wakes up and can't hear a thing because his ears are full of noises – whispers, screams – _betrayer_ and _outcast_ and _parricide_, other words he shied from when he heard them fill the silence of Lucifer's Cage.

There are mornings when he wakes up and he's himself, he's fine, he can hear Dean breathing in the other bed and the sound makes him smile to himself. Those are the good mornings.

The bad mornings are when he wakes up to a world that seems alien, when even Dean's face is only vaguely familiar.

Then there are the worst mornings.

On the worst mornings, Sam knows _nothing_. He doesn't know where he is, or _who_ he is, or even who the stranger is who seems to think he should eat jelly doughnuts for breakfast. All he knows, knows with unshakeable certainty, is that nobody must suspect that he doesn't know anything. If they suspect – if the strange man with the jelly doughnuts suspects – he's going to be called evil and a monster, there's going to be an empty room and he's going to be cuffed to a bed and Lucifer is going to laugh at him from corners.

So Sam plays along with what the man says, nods and smiles and pretends he knows what the hell is going on.

Then Sam _remembers_, and he's even more terrified, because he remembers that there _was_ an empty room and Dean saying Sam wasn't his brother, and that's even worse than Lucifer laughing.

Sam can't help what happens when he wakes up, but what he _can_ help – what he _should_ be able to help – is what happens when he's in full control of himself. He's learnt now that once he's awake and lucid, he'll stay that way as long as he can keep himself calm, but the second a strong emotion speeds his breathing and quickens his pulse, he'll be gone. One moment of shaken control is all Lucifer needs to fill Sam's mind with the memories, the cold and the pain, or, even more awful, the fear and the loneliness and _no Dean_, and then Sam will be lost, either in a dark hell filled with the shrieking agony of souls in torment and the all-encompassing pain of Lucifer's exquisite torture, or in a darker hell where he's alone, all alone, listening to Dean say Sam's not his brother.

Sam was getting good at keeping his emotions totally in control, but he's realized that it's much harder when he's hunting with Dean. He can't keep a cool head when he sees a vampire attacking his brother – but unless he learns to do it, worse things are going to happen.

They were lucky this time, and Sam knows it.

It was Dean looking at him that did it. Dean, thrashing in the vampire's chokehold, turning and seeing Sam, and the mixture of hurt and betrayal and desperate pleading in his eyes when he realized that his baby brother was just standing there _watching_. That was enough to bring Sam back, enough to silence Lucifer, enough to let him scare the vampire off before it could force Dean to feed.

But it could so easily have gone completely to hell.

And then there's the other thing, the thing Sam can't admit even to himself.

What was it Ruby had said? That Sam didn't need a feather to fly? Well... She was right.

Sam doesn't know how he's so certain, because he's never tried using any of his powers since being brought back from the cage. But he _is_ certain, just as he's certain that he can throw a punch or kick open a door. He can feel the slight tingling in the air, sense the size and weight of things he can't see, and he _knows_ that a thought, a slight twist of his mind, is all it will take.

He's never done it.

He's never going to do it...

Unless.

There's always an _unless_. Always a weakness. Sam, just like everyone else, has his price.

Dean.

If Dean's threatened, Sam knows he'll do anything. When he's having a _difficult_ day, he might not remember any exorcism rituals or be able to draw a Devil's Trap, but he can still feel the tingling. And no matter how difficult a day he's having, he still knows Dean is more important than anything or anyone. On the worst days he's terrified of Dean, but he still needs him.

Sam hopes it won't come to that, because...

Because he's not sure how much Dean still trusts him or needs him or even cares about him.

Sam knows that's not fair. In the few weeks they've been hunting together, Dean's been concerned, considerate, everything anyone could ask for. He's given Sam his space, but he's always been around, ready to step back into his big-brother role at the slightest sign that Sam wants him there.

If he only knew how _desperately _Sam wants him there...

But Sam's scared. He shouldn't be – it's not like he didn't give Dean reason to be suspicious of him earlier; that year between Sam opening the Cage and Sam stepping into it was hell on both of them – but still. Too much happened, he's been hurt too often, Lucifer made him live through it all too often, and there are too many voices whispering to him that an outcast is always an outcast.

Sam shivers again.

Something warm and soft lands on his head. He grabs at it – _Dean's jacket_ – and pulls it down, looking at his brother in surprise.

"Can't have you catching a cold," Dean says, not taking his eyes off the road. "You're always a little bitch when you're sick."

"I'm –"

Sam stops. _I'm fine_ is a lie on so many different levels that he could practically write a book about it. And he doesn't want to tell his brother another unnecessary lie, not even this simplest, most trivial, most blatant Winchester untruth.

"Thanks, Dean," he says at last, and the rush of warm emotion he feels when Dean smiles at the car in front of them is almost enough to bring the voices on again –

But Dean reaches over to help Sam into the jacket, because so far Sam's just been holding it without showing any sign of putting it on, and his brother's hand on his shoulder is enough to send the voices and their owners, even Lucifer, skittering away into the darkness before they can take over his mind.

Sam sighs and shuts his eyes.

And he thinks he hears Dean say, "That's my boy."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!

And if anyone else has butterflies the size of vampire bats and has chewed their nails down to nothing with panicking about what might happen in the next episode, please let me know so I don't feel like such a lunatic! ;-)


	5. For Always

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine.

Many thanks to Cheryl for advice and support and patient listening to show-related rants. Thanks to cold kagome, IritIlan, shimmerinstars, Lucian32, BranchSuper, SKJ-H, angeleyenc, godsdaughter77, ArmagonAuthor, JustShyOfMe and Kynstar for reviewing the last chapter. ;-)

This story is for all of you, and especially for those of you who have had _enough_ of the brother-versus-brother wrangling and want our boys and their love right back where it should be. (In other words: chick flick moment ahead!)

Summary: Sam's soul wasn't in his body. So... where _was_ it?

* * *

**For Always**

Losing track of time is alarming.

Losing track of _when_ you lost track of time? That's far, _far_ worse.

Sam knows he's going crazy, and he knows it doesn't matter anymore. What surprises him is how he managed to hold out _this _long.

Lucifer is good at what he does. He loves his little games, and if driving people to insanity were a competitive sport, Sam has no doubt that he'd hold every possible record. They'd probably have to invent new records just to give him something to break.

It's surreal. Everything's merged. Once upon a time – so long ago, it might be fifty years or a hundred or even more than that – Sam understood _down here_ and _up there_ and he could even tell the difference. He couldn't control the part of him that was _up there_ but he knew what was happening to it, what it was doing, and he knew that it was different. _Up there_ had no scorching cold and freezing heat. _Up there_ had no voices whispering, hissing, taunting him from the shadows. _Up there_ he did not have to see Lucifer everywhere he turned.

And yet Sam had been frightened of _up there_.

_Up there _was the place where he had killed Lilith and let Dean down. _Up there_ was where he had done terrible things that had destroyed his relationship with his brother. It was where Dean had died in his arms, where he had died in Dean's arms, where Jessica and his mother had died on the ceiling above him. _Up there_ was where Dean had called him a monster.

Monster.

Sam can't help laughing.

_Up there_ and _down here _are shifting and ever-changing now. Sam barely notices the pain of being _down here_; it's been so long that he's used to it. He's used to the fire and the frost and the knives and the heat and the cold and...

Sam wonders if he should be scared. Then he laughs again. He's been laughing a lot lately. The last time Lucifer had scraped a knife delicately down his spine he'd snickered as though it was the funniest thing in the world. Lucifer had seemed a little disconcerted. He had been expecting screaming, maybe, or pleas for mercy.

_Mercy._

Sam knows it.

Sam feels it.

But for the past decades – God knows how many decades – he's been forced to watch himself show no mercy, no compassion, nothing that makes him human. He's been forced to watch and do nothing, because while he can _see_ things from _down here_, while he can see and feel and sense everything that's happening to himself as though he really were _up there_, the fact is that he _isn't_ and so all he can do is watch.

Then suddenly Sam realizes that the _pain_ has stopped.

It's a feeling of blessed, glorious relief, but he doesn't let himself enjoy it too much because he knows it can't last. He doesn't know whether it's been ten decades or twenty, but whichever it is, it is a _very_ short time compared to the rest of eternity, which is how much Sam has left to endure.

"Was it worth it?"

Sam gives a start of surprise when he realizes that Lucifer spoke. He manages to raise his head a little and rasp out, "What?"

"This." Sam has the sensation of someone settling down on the ground next to him, but he doesn't bother to look because he knows he'll see nobody. "The Cage. My parlour. The sacrifice of your soul for your brother's happiness. Was it worth it?"

"Dean's happy."

"Is he?"

"Happier than he would've been otherwise."

"Happier without you." He feels a touch ghost over his head and he flinches away. Lucifer chuckles, sinister glee that reveals depths of insanity that Sam hasn't plumbed yet. He doesn't doubt that he will before Lucifer's through. "You're not the only one who thinks so, Sammy. The lovely Lisa agrees with you."

_Lisa_ thinks Dean is happier without him? Sam doesn't know why that should feel like betrayal, but it does.

"What do you want?" Sam asks wearily.

He's not surprised that Lucifer's shown an inclination to get chatty – Lucifer _can_ be the chatty type – but it's never been a sign of anything good before, and Sam can't imagine why things should change now.

"I want you pay attention." The hand on his head presses down hard and Sam knows he's screaming although he can't hear it; he _must_ be screaming because it feels like his bones are on fire, like his blood is freezing in his veins. Then it stops, and Sam tries not to sob. "Shhh..." Lucifer soothes. "I know it hurts, but comfort yourself with the thought that what is about to happen is going to be worse." Sam just stares into the darkness, because he has no idea what Lucifer is talking about. A fist closes on his hair. "_Pay attention_," Lucifer hisses in his ear.

And suddenly sounds begin to filter through, sounds from _up there_.

The feeling is strange, like it always is, because Sam is seeing a room and a dead woman and Dean waving a knife, and he's backing off but Dean looks like he's going to kill him, and his tongue is forming words but Sam can't control them. And he can feel _up there_ but he can also feel _down here_, feel the heat and the suffocation and hear the soft, gleeful noises that Lucifer is making.

"I need help."

Sam just said that. He knows it, although he had no control over it, but now, for the first time in _who_ knows how long – he doesn't think even _God_ can answer that one – he's feeling a tendril of hope. Burdening Dean with the problem of _up there_ and _down here_ is not what Sam would have chosen to do, but since it seems to have happened, maybe Dean can help him.

Maybe – the tendril of hope flares alarmingly – maybe Dean actually _wants _him back. Maybe Dean will find a way for Sam to be entirely _up there_.

Maybe –

The first blow lands.

Sam is knocked off his feet and finds himself staring at an alarmingly angry Dean, one who is clearly gearing up to hit him again.

And again.

Sam shies away, cowers, because this can't be happening.

This _cannot_ be happening. Not Dean. Not like this. Dean might throw a punch when he loses his temper, but not _this_. Dean wouldn't beat him to a pulp no matter _what_ he did, Dean wouldn't –

And then there's darkness and silence _up there_, and Sam is listening to Lucifer's mad laughter echoing through the emptiness.

"Big brother doesn't like you very much, does he?" Lucifer sounds happier than Sam's ever heard him. "Do you believe me _now_, Sammy? I always knew he was like that. Just like Michael. Michael would sell out his grandmother – well, he would if we _had_ a grandmother – for a nickel and a song if he thought it would contribute in the smallest way to the world's perception of his unbounded righteousness."

"Dean wouldn't."

"Dean _did_. Do you remember what I told you about the deal Dean made with Death? He gave you up so he could get the ring."

"He didn't have a choice," Sam spat. "I would've told him to do it."

"But he didn't ask you, did he? Shouldn't it have been _your_ choice to make, Sam? What gives Dean the right to give _you_ up so _he_ could be the hero who saved the world? And you don't even get any credit for it. You die to save the world and when you go back it takes all of half an hour for him to start thinking you're a monster."

"_No._"

"_Yes._ And Bobby. Bobby likes Dean better. So does that idiot Castiel. Is there _anybody_ at all who likes _you_, Sam?"

"Dean," Sam mumbles, wishing his voice weren't such a pitiful whimper, wishing he knew whether he's answering Lucifer's question or asking _how_ his brother could do that to him or just plain wanting Dean.

"_Dean?_" Lucifer's laugh is disbelief. "You're joking, right? You think _Dean_... Haven't you learnt _anything_, Sammy?" That hated voice is low, sensuous, making the little hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end. "Dean hates you. He hated you in any case – he _gave_ you to Death in exchange for a _trinket_, Sammy – and on top of that you managed to ruin his perfect little suburban life. _Dean._"

Lucifer chuckles, and Sam tries to turn away, but it's _bloody_ difficult turn away from someone who's not physically even _there_.

It's not true. It's _not_ true. He screwed up, but Dean doesn't hate him.

Dean _can't_ hate him.

Can he?

* * *

Sam doesn't know how many months or years of endless, all-encompassing pain pass before the next time he's aware of _up there_. He's lived – or, considering the circumstances, _not _lived –through the worst tortures Lucifer's twisted mind can devise. He's lived through the miserable, screwed-up past so many times that now he's certain Lucifer is right and Dean hates him. He was just deluding himself thinking otherwise.

Delusional Sammy. He supposes that goes with Freak Sammy and Dark Sammy.

"Sammy."

Sam starts. That's not Lucifer's voice. But the only voice he hears _down here_ is Lucifer's, which means the voice must be coming from _up there_. He barely has time to think about how strange it is when he hears the voice again.

"Sammy, I know you can hear me."

Funny. It's not coming from _up there_... Or not _only_ from there. It's also _down here_, although Sam has no idea how _that_ is happening. It's the first time he's heard any voice other than Lucifer's _down here_.

And this is not Lucifer's voice.

Sam reaches out tentatively, lets himself feel what's happening _up there_ – maybe it can explain the mystery – and suddenly he's in pain, pain that's almost as bad as Lucifer's pain, looking through a red haze at a very familiar face.

"Sammy, you have to come back to me."

And Sam realizes that Dean's talking to _him_, trying to reach him _down here_, and that the edge between _up there_ and _down here_ has blurred. Sam has a feeling he might be able to cross it if he tries.

Sam shies away. He remembers _up there_. _Up there_ is where everyone hates him, even Dean. _Up there_ is a place where he can get hurt in ways not even Lucifer could begin to imagine. And he's sure Dean doesn't mean it in any case. Dean probably thinks that he's bringing back the hunter who's been _up there _for the past year or more. He has no idea that he'll be bringing back a nervous wreck who probably won't even be able to do up his own shoelaces.

There's no way Sam is going _up there_.

And he _does _sob when he realizes how pathetic it is that Lucifer's damned Cage is a kinder place for him than the world.

"Sammy, _please_." There's a desperate edge to the voice. If Sam didn't know better, he would think Dean really does want him. "Sammy, I know it's difficult. I've been a jerk and Cas is a dick – shut up, Cas, you _know_ you're a dick – and Bobby's... Well, he's Bobby. But you have to come back. I need you."

Sam tries to back away from the voice, but he can't, it's everywhere, he can hear it even through the pain that's filling him _up there_ – it's the _only_ thing he can hear through that pain.

"Sammy, I know. I know, OK. I know some of the crap that goes on down there, and I know I can't even begin to imagine what you've gone through. But it'll be OK, I promise. I'm here." The voice breaks, catches, goes on again, shaking now. "I'm here, and I'm never going to leave you. Whatever you need from me, you'll have it, Sammy, I _promise_. You're going to deal with it – if there's _anyone_ strong enough to deal with it, it's you – and I'll be with you. I promise. Please come back, Sammy."

Sam pauses. There was truth in that voice.

"Sammy, _please_."

Maybe...

Sam hesitates and reaches out, uncertain of precisely what he's doing. But he seems to have done the right thing, because suddenly _down here_ is gone and the sights and sounds and smells of _up there _are a hundred times more vivid.

Sam flinches and retreats, slumping in a mixture of disappointment and relief when he finds himself in the Cage again.

"_No!_" Dean's voice is wild. "No, Sammy! You were here! You were just here, I felt it! You don't get to go back – you do _not _get to leave me like this. You come back, Sammy! You come back this _minute_! Whatever the hell you want me to do, I will do it. I'm giving you a blanket promise, Sam. Freaking _anything_. We can have all the chick-flick moments you like. I'll even tuck you in at night and sing you a lullaby. But you come _back_."

Sam wavers...

And makes up his mind.

* * *

No pain.

Soft sobbing.

Sam opens his eyes after a brief struggle. He's in a... room? With vague figures standing around, looking at him in disappointment. Bobby, maybe? He doesn't really remember what Bobby looks like anymore. The only person whose face he remembers –

Is fumbling at the ropes that are holding Sam down to a chair. And he's sobbing.

"_Dean_," Sam mumbles, his voice rusty from disuse.

Dean looks up at him, hope and fear and disbelief warring for dominance in his expression. One trembling hand comes up to touch Sam's face, and the touch is so different from Lucifer's, warm and gentle, that Sam feels tears pricking at his eyelids. He leans into the touch as much as the ropes will let him.

"Sammy," Dean breathes. "Oh, God, _Sammy_."

The next minute passes in a blur. Sam notes vaguely that Dean's flailing around wildly with the knife he's using to cut Sam loose. He's going to kill them both if he's not careful.

Then it's over and he's on the ground with Dean, feeling strong arms around him. Sam holds himself a little stiffly at first – he's forgotten how to do this – but Dean seems to understand, because one of his hands comes up to guide Sam's head down onto his shoulder, and the other is rubbing his back, and slowly Sam lets himself relax.

He realizes he's crying.

"Shhh, Sammy," Dean says, and he sounds like he's crying too. Brilliant. They're both going to turn into girls after this. "Shhh, I know. I know. It's OK. I'm here."

"_Dean._"

That seems to be the only word Sam can remember now, but Dean doesn't mind. He laughs through his tears.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here. I'm not leaving you."

"Dean."

Dean laughs again, without tears this time, full-throated and happy, but before he can say anything Sam feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Better now, Sam?"

Sam flinches away, tries to find a way to hide in Dean's arms, because he is _not_ ready for other people. The only thing in the world _up there_ that he trusts is Dean.

Dean responds at once. Sam hears him bark, "Leave him alone! Can't you _see _he needs time?" at whoever it was before he goes back to soothing Sam. And now Sam knows, somehow he _knows_, that it's just the two of them, Sam and Dean, that everyone else who was in the room has gone.

He relaxes even more, trying to tell Dean not to leave him, but all that comes out is a wordless, incoherent mumble. Dean understands, though – Dean always understands – and he says, "Don't be an idiot, Sam. Of course I'm not going to leave you."

And Sam knows neither of them is going to move for a while.

* * *

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	6. Shattered

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine.

Gratitude, as always, to Cheryl, for advice, title suggestions, encouragement, and just plain listening. Thanks to Klutzygirl33, Cainchan, cold kagome, twomom, BranchSuper, angeleyenc, Mrs Winchester, Phyllis, godsdaughter77, AuthoressCrest, JustShyOfMe, Kynstar, sai518, jensengirl4eva and IritIlan for the reviews!

I hope you didn't think I'd given up on writing tags. ;-)

**Summary:** Dean's been trying not to think about what's happening to Sam's soul. Now he can't help it. Tag to 6.10, _Caged Heat_.

* * *

**Shattered**

Damn Cas. Damn Crowley. Damn – freaking – stupid – _jerks_.

I was trying not to think about what was happening downstairs. I was _managing_ not to think about it. More importantly, Sam was managing not to think about it too much either.

Neither of us is stupid. We knew, even if we didn't admit it even to ourselves, as soon as Cas said Sam's soul was still in the Cage. We _knew_ because, really, what the hell would Lucifer and Michael have been doing with Sam down there? Playing checkers?

But we were getting by just fine without admitting it. Because if we didn't admit it, there was a possibility that it wasn't true.

And the other thing – that bringing a soul like that back might leave Sam a raving lunatic?

I don't know about Sam, but _I _thought of it. And then I stopped thinking about it, partly because, just like thinking about Sam being tortured, the idea of that Gigantor brain of his shutting down, shutting me _out_, is enough to make me want to get drunk and go trash something.

But Cas just _had _to bring it up.

What did he think, that talking about it was going to make it _better_? The only one who can make me feel better by talking is Sam, and _he's_ –

Yeah. It sucks.

So now my head is full of pictures of Sam being tortured. And it's tormenting me as much as though I were down there doing it personally. I can see him screaming just like all those souls _I _tortured.

Thanks for bringing that up, by the way, Meg.

Is Sam screaming right now? While I'm lying here on this crappy motel room bed staring at the ceiling, is Sam screaming?

Is he screaming for me?

Oh, God, he _is _screaming for me. I know it. I just _know _it, because Sam always wants me when he's hurt or sick or in trouble, and I'm guessing all of the above apply to him right now. While I'm sitting up here drinking beer and talking to Bobby and moping about Lisa, Sam's down there screaming for me because he's being tortured worse than any human being has ever been tortured before and it's been going on for more than a freaking _year_.

More than a freaking _upstairs_ year, which in _downstairs _years is…

I want to throw up.

I turn my head.

Sam's there, his face illuminated in the glow from his laptop. He's chewing at his lip and muttering and I _so _do not like that look on his face.

Oh, God, _Sammy_.

I roll over, turning my back to Sam. He doesn't understand – he doesn't, Cas doesn't. Sure, they're being sensible and reasonable, saying it doesn't make sense to bring Sam's soul back when it might be catastrophic.

Don't they _get _it?

The guy here might be Sam – I'm sure he and his brain cells understand the metaphysics better than I do.

But the soul in the Cage is Sam, too.

He's Sammy, my Sammy, my baby brother, and he's being _tortured_ by two of the most powerful archangels in existence, both of whom are frustrated, bored out of whatever passes for their heads, and probably blaming both the frustration and the boredom on Sammy.

So guys? I'm sorry if I can't be as _logical _about this as you want me to be, but…

Sammy's screaming for me, I just know it. Right now. Right now, I'm curled up under a blanket _not _crying and Sam's begging me to help him and there's not a damn thing I can do about it because he's there and he's here and the part of him that's here doesn't want to listen to a word I have to say.

_I'm coming for you, Sammy._

Yeah, keep talking to yourself, Dean. _That's _going to bring Sam back.

_Oh, God, I need you now, kiddo. I need you to tell me how to fix this because I don't know._

Sam – the Sam _here _– thinks we're going to be fine without getting his soul back, because I can take all the difficult decisions, and meanwhile he's the ultimate hunter.

If he had his soul, he'd see that I'm not exactly on top of my part of the job.

I _need _him. I need him to feel sorry for ghosts and listen to vampires' side of the story and go all dewy-eyed with elderly ladies. I need him because I don't freaking know how to do it. I've been trying – I _have_ – and I've done OK so far, but that's mainly been by asking myself what Sam would do and then telling _this _Sam to do it – or doing it myself.

It doesn't always work. Sam _has _to get his soul back, because –

Because it helps us hunt better? Yeah, way to prove that _you _have a soul, Dean.

That's not the answer though. Sam's soul needs to be back in his body because it needs to get out of the Cage, and it needs to get out of the Cage because the longer it's there, the more I'm going to go crazy thinking about it there.

And maybe, just maybe, Sam will want to be my little brother again when he gets it back.

Right now, I don't think he even understands the _concept_ of a brother. Sure, he gets the theory, but if he thinks that anything, freaking _anything_, is going to persuade me to sit on my hands while Sam or Sam's soul or anything remotely connected with Sam is downstairs being Michael and Lucifer's plaything…

_Maybe they take turns with him._

Oh, _God_. I don't know where the _hell _that thought came from, but now it's there and I can't get it out. How do they do it? Do they fight over who gets to hurt him? Do they take turns? Do they torture him _together_?

Damn _it_.

The room's quiet; I can hear crickets and the occasional car outside and the quiet clickety-click of Sam's fingers on the keys. And all I can think about is what Michael and Lucifer are doing to my Sammy.

Has he stopped screaming for me? It's been years for him – decades – close to two _centuries _now. Has he resigned himself to the fact that I'm not coming for him?

Has he forgotten who I am?

_No._ God, please, not that. I can take anything else – I can take Sam being pissed at me or Sam not talking to me or even Sam hating me. I can't take Sam forgetting me.

"What do you remember?" I say suddenly, rolling over to face Sam again.

Sam glances at me. "I knew you weren't asleep."

"Nice to hear that. What _do _you remember, Sam? About the Cage?"

Sam shrugs. "It hurt. A lot. And there was a lot of yelling. I think that was me."

"You were screaming?"

I knew it. _I knew it I knew it I knew it._ Sam's screaming for me, and I'm here doing jack squat and this is so messed up that I don't even have words to freaking describe it.

"Yeah, I guess." Sam looks at me again and sighs. "See, this is why I didn't want to talk about it, Dean. I knew it would upset you." He gets up, walks to my bed and sits on the edge like an actor playing a part. Which I guess he is. "It's OK. I'm here."

"But you're also _there_." There's a catch in my voice. "I can't live with that, Sam."

"Why?"

"Because…" How do I explain this? "Because it's _you_. Samuel called me a hypocrite, and maybe I am, but I can't… I can't take that, Sam. Every time I think about it I want to put a bullet through my head. Sam, please, I'm begging you. You have to do this – we _have _to get your soul back. We can't leave it in the Cage."

"Dean, I'm fine without it."

And that, more than anything, tells me that Sam is missing his soul. Because the old Sam, _my _Sam, would have known how much I needed him and he would have found a way to give me what I needed.

"_Please._"

"Go to sleep, Dean." Sam pats my shoulder, and it feels so weird that I want to… I don't know what I want to do.

"Did you scream for me?"

I don't know where _that _question came from either, but now that I've asked it, I want to know. I watch Sam carefully, hoping he won't brush me off.

"Dean, you're just tormenting yourself –"

"Please. I have to know."

Sam sighs, and the hand on my shoulder gentles until… Until it almost feels like the old Sammy keeping me company when I'm sick.

"Yeah," he says at last, quietly. "Yeah, I did. Always for you. I… I remember it. I don't – I didn't want you there, because that would mean you were stuck there too, but at the same time I _did _want you just… Just because I was afraid. And it hurt… There, you see?" Sam sounds suddenly exasperated. "Now you're crying!"

"I am _not_ crying!" I manage with a glare.

"There's a wet spot on your pillow."

"Shut up." Then, "Sammy…"

"I understand, Dean."

"Do you?"

He considers it a moment, then shrugs. "No. But there's nothing you can do about it."

"Sam… I know you don't want your soul back because of what Cas and Crowley said but… Dude, come on. It won't be so bad as long as I'm with you."

Sam's eyes meet mine squarely in the dark. "Maybe. But how long will you be there, Dean?"

Then he's gone, I hear the door open and close, and I have just my own whirling thoughts for company. My thoughts, and a mental image of Sammy begging me to help him.

_Screw you, Lucifer. I am coming for my brother, and nothing and nobody is going stand in my way. If I have to kill you and kill Michael and kill the entire freaking population of Hell to get to him, I am damn well going to do it. I hope you're ready.

* * *

_

_Before_ you kill me, there _is _going to be a follow-up to this no matter what happens on Friday. Same time next week. Or something like it. :D

So what did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	7. The Ties that Bind

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

The title for this story came (as usual) from Cheryl.

Many thanks to my wonderful reviewers – godsdaughter77, jensengirl4eva, angeleyenc, mousefiction, Cainchan, cold kagome, Aislynnrose2010, BranchSuper, ArmagonAuthor and Kathryn Marie Black.

**Author's Note:** I _know _I promised to have this done a while ago, and I am _so _sorry. But maybe you'll forgive me when I hear what I have to say for myself – I had an idea for a longer story after I saw _Appointment in Samarra_, and I just _had _to get it written while it was still in my head. So… I'll start posting that once I've had a chance to edit it a bit.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this!

**Summary:** After it's done, Dean reflects. Tag to 6.11, "Appointment in Samarra".

* * *

**The Ties that Bind**

So much unsaid. So many questions unasked.

So many questions that never will be asked, because…

Well, we both know why… or at least, I do, and I think Sam does. I explained it to him, but I have no idea how much of it he got, how much was just empty sounds. I don't want to _risk _asking or prodding him to remember or doing _anything _that might break that wall that I can't help feeling is way too fragile to stand against the flood that it's trying to hold back.

That's the scary thing, isn't it? Our lives have been full of people and demons and angels promising us things would work – save the world, save a brother – and then having them blow up in our faces.

This time I've been warned that it _won't_ last forever.

Putting that in perspective, and making the necessary allowances for Winchester luck, I'm giving it a week before Sam's own curiosity gets the better of him or somebody – hell, maybe _me_ – says or does the wrong thing or he sees something or –

Who knows what could set it off? Death doesn't really understand human minds. Why would he? He only shows up at the end, deals with the existential questions and sends people to the other side. Probably doesn't even bother to say goodbye. I'm likelier to understand how bugs think than he is to understand people.

And if he doesn't understand _regular_ people, there's just no way he's going to understand my brother.

I shoot a glance at the other bed. Sam's asleep. That's a big sign that he's himself again, but it's not the _first _sign. The first sign was when he opened his eyes and looked at me, hands still cuffed to the bed, and said, "_Dean_," the way a child would say, "_Fix this._"

_I can't fix this, Sammy. I can't even keep it from breaking._

Sam's rolled onto his stomach. It's usually a sign that he's sick – or drunk – but I've felt his forehead and he's cool to the touch. Maybe he _is_ sick, but it's not the kind of sickness that a thermometer can measure.

_We are so screwed._

The silence is unnerving. It isn't that Sam can't talk, because he _can_. He said, "Dean," after all. Said it a few times, using for, "Please," and, "Thank you," and, "Thirsty," like it's the only word he knows, and I wonder uneasily if he remembers English after a hundred and eighty years in the Cage. Has he heard _anything _but Enochian in all that time?

But, well, he remembers _me_. That has to be a good sign, right?

I can tell that the wall's held up so far because Sam's not tormented the way he would be if he remembered the Cage. He's just exhausted, physically and mentally and emotionally wrung out. That's not really a surprise: the kid's not slept in over a year.

Sam's going to be OK in a few days. That isn't an attempt at that stupid positive energy crap. I know he is. The wall's holding and once he's rested and got some food in him he'll be up and coherent and ready to get back on the job. Of course, all that is going to happen _after _I've sat him down, which I will do as soon as he says a word other than "Dean", and impressed upon him the importance of _not touching the wall_.

Is it going to work? Not bloody likely. Sam'll try not to poke at it, he'll try not to think too much, and maybe he'll even manage it for a while. But eventually that geek brain of his will refuse to let it go at that. He won't even do it as a deliberate decision, it'll just be reflex.

And… Well.

The worst part is that Sammy doesn't even seem worried. It's kind of ironic, because the badass version of him that I've been going around with for four months, the stone-cold hunter who let me get turned into a vampire and picked up girls while I was missing and freaking stared the Goddess of Truth Down and lied to her face, _that _Sam was running scared.

_My _Sam just looked at me. He didn't really listen to a word of the five-minute chick-flick monologue I had for him except the part where I said I was going to take care of him. When I reached for him he practically flung himself into my arms (and nearly wound up breaking his wrist because Bobby hadn't finished uncuffing him at that point) and hugged me so hard that my ribs are _still _sore. Then I hauled him upstairs and gave him some water and got him to bed, and as soon as I did he was out like a light.

Somehow I just know this is going to go ten ways to Hell. We have too many enemies, too much unfinished business, and Sammy's vulnerable right now.

To begin with there's our wish-he-were-late, won't-be-lamented grandfather. Samuel's got to be spitting nails after what happened to Crowley, and I'm sure he's going to have a few more names to call me once he hears that Sam's back.

Tough.

I understand how he feels – I _did_, at least – and I would've understood a lot of desperate acts, but betraying his own grandsons? Risking Sam's _soul_? As far as I'm concerned, there's no absolution for that.

I need to deal with him, but I need to be careful. Samuel, as little as I like to admit it, is a more experienced hunter than Dad, better than me, probably knows more lore than Sam. And at this point he likely as not wants us dead. Which is absolutely OK with me, because I totally return the sentiments, but somehow I get the feeling that this time Sam's not going to be standing behind me with a loaded gun pointed at Samuel. This isn't _Sam_,after all, not the Sam that Samuel knew and was willing to sacrifice. This is Sammy, _my _Sammy, and if I know anything about him he's going to try to persuade me to let it go.

_No dice, Sam. Not _your _little brother's soul he was playing with._

I look at Sam again. He looks almost peaceful. It's been – God, it's actually been ten years since I saw him sleep peacefully. Before Jessica, before Stanford, before demon blood and Apocalypses, when it was just him and me and Dad and a bunch of fuglies to kill.

I reach across the space between the beds and lay a hand on his cheek, just to be sure there _isn't _a fever.

His skin is warm now – not dangerously warm, just I-don't-want-Dean-to-get-any-rest-tonight warm. He stirs at my touch, mumbles, "Dean," and goes back to sleep. I don't have the heart to wake him for medicine.

I know we're headed for trouble. I know because I know that wall isn't going to stay up very long because there is just_ no freaking way_ we're going to be so lucky. I've brought Sam back – again – to a world that's probably going to be just as screwed up as it was the last time around.

Except that it isn't going to be _as _screwed up, because this time we know – we _both _know – that when worse finally _does _come to worst and we come to the end of everything, we're going to choose to trust each other. Last time we weren't sure of each other or ourselves, but we both learnt some hard lessons… And know we know. It's always going to be us. Sam and Dean. Dean and Sam. And the angels and demons and sons of bitches can go to hell, preferably the same Hell my baby brother went to, and they can bloody stay there until they've settled their squabbles.

Sam _will _remember. But it doesn't matter, because when he does, I'm going to be there.

* * *

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	8. Brightest Truth, Purest Trust

**Disclaimer: **Don't own the boys.

Many thanks to Cheryl for the help with this.

Thanks to Menthol Pixie, crazybeagle, Kathryn Marie Black, BranchSuper, supernaturaldh, Lucian32, angeleyenc, Cainchan, godsdaughter77 and shimmerinstars for the reviews!

I really wasn't planning another tag to 6.11, but Hellatus, no _Supernatural_, just a few tantalizing pictures… What's a girl to do? ;-)

**Summary: **Dean knows it's Sam. Set a few weeks after the re-souling.

* * *

**Brightest Truth, Purest Trust**

Bobby keeps asking if I'm _sure _it's really Sam.

I get it. Really. After all, Robocop had _him _fooled until I came along, didn't he?

And to tell the truth, I still don't understand _how_. Bobby didn't know everything Sam was doing, of course, didn't know the half of it from what I've heard… But _still_. This is _Sam_. The second Sam came up with a plan involving not telling me he was back, Bobby should've known something was up.

Not for the first time, I wish Bobby had forced Sam to come to me – well, I suppose he couldn't have done _that_, not with Sam the way he was. It would've taken an armoured tank to force him to do something he didn't want to do. But Bobby could at least have freaking _called_ me and told me Sam was OK. Then _I _would've tracked Sam down and I would've realized _months_ ago that something was wrong with him. If we'd been able to pull Sam out sooner… Maybe there wouldn't even have been any need for the wall.

I'm not blaming Bobby at all, of course – maybe he really did think I could find something approaching peace. Maybe he had no idea my nightmares were full of Sam burning and screaming. Maybe… oh, what the hell! He thought Sam was _Sam_ and he thought _I_ would be all right when the last I'd seen of my baby brother was him falling into Lucifer's Cage. Doesn't he _know _us at _all_?

Still… It's not Bobby's fault, and I really _don't _blame him. It isn't _his_ job to watch out for Sam.

Anyway, that's why Bobby isn't sure. I mean, he _is _sure, because Sam's first act on waking up after Death had finished with him was to grab me and start having a chick-flick moment (and he still had Robo-Sam's muscle mass, so he nearly broke my ribs with it). At any other time I wouldn't have stood it, but after God knows how many decades with only Michael and Lucifer for company I figured the kid was entitled.

So Bobby _is _sure, because the Sam we had before Death did his thing wouldn't even have known how to hug. But he's not sure because Sam fooled him before and I think he half-suspects it's an act.

Me? I _know_. I knew that _thing_ wasn't Sam and I know _this_ is Sam, _my_ Sam. I can feel it.

He's not the same. Obviously. I don't even want to _think _about the kind of scars those two douchebags downstairs left on his soul, and then there's the wall blocking out part of his memory. Everything that happened in that year, upstairs _and _downstairs, has gone behind the wall, so Sam now…

_God._

Sam's back where he was when he jumped. Terrified, apologetic, tail between his legs, blaming himself for everything that goes wrong on earth.

I hate it, because it sucks that after everything he's suffered, after he's made up for his mistakes about a hundred times over, he still feels like he needs to atone. It sucks – and _God _I never thought I'd be saying this – that he's gone back to doing what I tell him without asking questions, as though he still doesn't trust his instincts.

But… well… I know how to deal with this. It'll take time and patience, and for once I'm going to make sure that Sam gets plenty of both.

Because there's absolutely no doubt that this is Sammy.

* * *

_Freaking Wendigo._

I let Sam help me up. He's taking practically all my weight, and it's just as well he's twenty feet tall because I'm not exactly little myself.

_Freaking claws and freaking teeth on the freaking freak._

"You OK, Sammy?" I ask.

"Dean, I'm not the one it went to town on." His voice sounds like it's coming from far away. "Can you walk? Not far, just up to that path over there. I'll bring the Impala in. We wasted the Wendigo and there's no sign of anything else. You should be safe."

"I can walk to the Impala. Only half a mile."

"Shut up."

_Whoa._

Definitely not the Sam I remember from right before Stull Cemetery.

"Sammy –"

"Shut up, Dean. You're not walking. You're going to sit here with the Colt. This is the safest place in the forest right now considering all the protection we put around it before we lured the thing in."

"That's my _point_," I snap. "_This _place is safe. The forest isn't. Who's going to watch your back?"

"I'll be _fine_, Dean. It's half a freaking _mile_."

"You know how many ugly monsters can ambush you in 'half a freaking mile'?"

"_Dean_," Sam says in a tone that's incredibly, annoyingly familiar from when he was sixteen or so. It's his _big-brothers-are-so-stupid_ voice. "You can't watch my back like this! You just… you sit here and wait." He lowers me to the ground under a tree by the path. "I'll be right back. Don't talk to any strangers while I'm gone."

"_Sammy!_" I try to get up, but I can't manage it without Sam's help. "Sammy, don't you dare – you are not going alone. I'm coming with you."

"Why, so you can make your injuries worse? Not happening, Dean."

"OK, how about I come partway with you –"

"_Dean!_ This isn't a negotiation!"

"You are _not _going alone."

"Dean, _please_."

Now he doesn't sound sixteen, he sounds about _six_, and he's got that look of wide-eyed pleading that he _knows_ I can't refuse and _bloody freaking hell _I'm saying yes.

And Bobby wants to know if I'm _sure_ it's Sam. Freaking _eyes_! Actual six-year-olds can't pull eyes like that. Actual _puppies_ can't pull eyes like that. Only Sammy Winchester can pull eyes like that and _only_ my stupid brother would pick a time like this to pull them on me.

I slump against the tree and watch Sam's retreating back. Five minutes. I'm giving him _five _minutes and then I'm going after him, eyes or not.

Nope, absolutely _no _bloody doubt that this is Sammy.

* * *

"Son of a _bitch_!"

"Sorry," Sam murmurs. "I'm sorry, Dean. Hold on. Just a bit more."

_Yup. Definitely not Robo-Sam._

Not that Robo-Sam didn't patch me up a couple of times – he _did_, and he was pretty efficient, too – but apologizing and making soothing noises and patting my shoulder with every splash of peroxide? No way.

Of course, _this _Sam's not nearly as quick and neat as _that _Sam. _This_ Sam isn't making tiny, compact stitches –

_Because his hands are shaking too much –_

And he's taking about eight times as long –

_Because he's stopping and rubbing my shoulder every time I flinch –_

And he actually worked my arms out of my shirt instead of just cutting it off –

_Because he knows it's my favourite shirt and he'll save it if he can._

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Take your time. No hurry. We've got all night."

There's no sarcasm in my voice. The hands on my back go still again, this time because Sam's stopped so that he can stare at me in astonishment.

"Dean, just how hard did you hit your head?"

"Shut up," I mutter. "See if I ever try to keep the pressure off you again. Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam says automatically, going back to his work.

It takes time, but something about it feels right. The Sam I had a couple of weeks ago wouldn't have taken time; we'd've been done by now and then he would have shoved a couple of pills in my hand and gone out to gank a vampire or two.

Now? When Sam _finally_ gets the last bandage tied, he squeezes my shoulder. Again.

One of these days I'm _really_ going to tell him I'm not a freaking teddy bear.

"I'll get you something for the pain," Sam says. "And then you can sleep. You want anything to eat first?"

I make a face, nauseous at the thought. Sam's hand is on my head, and _damn _it, it's not supposed to feel that good to have my brother's fingers running through my hair. It's not supposed to feel that… comforting.

"Yeah, that's OK," Sam says. "Just the pills, then."

He doesn't sound apologetic or terrified now. He sounds strong – but it's not strong like he's trying to prove something to me, not strong like he's had his soul ripped out and his weaknesses along with it. This is the kind of strength that's familiar and _right_, the kind of strength I saw in the instant when Sam defeated Lucifer. This is my brother.

"Pills," I agree, and I am _not _smiling goofily up at him.

Sam disappears. He's back a moment later, helping me sit up, handing me the pills, holding the glass for me to drink. Then he lowers me back to the bed, _gently_ – it's amazing how gentle Sammy can be for someone so _big_ – and settles me on my side.

"Go to sleep, Dean. I'll wake you in an hour."

"Dude, I _don't_ have a concussion."

"It slammed you into that rock pretty hard. We need to be sure." That stupid big hand is on my head again, and I don't have the energy to swat it away. "Go to sleep. I'll be right here."

My last thought is that there's absolutely _no _freaking doubt that this is Sammy.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	9. There Is Always Hope

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never mine.

And if that last episode didn't have some really adorable moments… I'm starting to feel _very _hopeful about the rest of the season. ;-) We're practically set up for unpleasant things to happen to the Great Wall of Sam.

Thanks to Cheryl for the title suggestion as usual.

A shout to my wonderful reviewers: Kathryn Marie Black, angeleyenc, cookjar, OutTonightAndForever, criminally charmed, SandyDee84, The Eleventh Marauder, BranchSuper, twomoms, Twinchester Angel, godsdaughter77, jelpy1, casammy, TinTin11 and sai518.

**Summary:** Sam's back. And Robo-Sam was a better hunter. Dean's thoughts through 6.12.

* * *

**There Is Always Hope**

Sammy. _Sammy Sammy Sammy Sammy._

That's all that's been in my head since Death disappeared and left me with one unresponsive Sasquatch.

I talk to Cas and I talk to Bobby and Cas thinks he won't be fine and Bobby thinks he will and _I_…

I don't know what to think. I know that, like Bobby says, the kid's taken everything everyone's thrown at him and got up and kept going. But nobody's ever thrown a year and a half in Lucifer's Cage at him. Nobody's ever thrown it at _anybody_ and I'm just plain terrified because if this doesn't work, I don't know if I'll be able to fix it.

Then he appears in the doorway and for a second there I can't believe it's him – but it _is_, and this time he flings himself into my arms and holds on and I can tell that he needs the contact as much as I do. I can hear his breathing, quick and shallow, and feel his heart going at a mile a minute.

We're going to be OK. We've got a clean slate. I keep telling myself that as I let Sam go (and it's harder than I thought it would be) and watch him hug Bobby (and I have an irrational urge to grab him and hug him again). I watch him eat, I lie to his face and then I sit and watch him sleep before Bobby drags my ass out of the bedroom and starts talking to me about the hunt and about when we're going to tell Sam the truth.

Oh, yeah, there's still a hunt. More important things to think about, here, Bobby.

And tell Sam the truth? Not happening.

I have my brother back – my baby brother who actually looked at me with those Dean-can-fix-anything eyes. Bobby wants me to go telling him the _truth_ when that'll risk cracking the wall and turning my Sammy into a drooling mess. Or worse.

Bobby's right about one thing – Sam _will_ find out. Eventually. He's _Sam_ and too many people know about that missing year. Grandpa – Gwen – Meg – Balthazar – freaking _anyone_ could let it slip. And the last thing I want is for Sam not to trust me – or to think I don't trust him. Considering that his last memories are of falling into Lucifer's Cage and the miserable year before it, _lying_ is something I definitely don't want between us.

But I don't have to tell him the truth _now_, do I? Not right away. He's sleeping so _easily_, no tossing, no nightmares. That hasn't happened since –

God. It hasn't happened since I drove into Palo Alto and told him I needed his help finding Dad.

Sam hasn't had a peaceful night for five and a half freaking _years_. And once he knows what went down, it'll probably be another five and a half years before he has a peaceful night again.

I can afford to wait a little longer.

* * *

Sam's perceptive. Just as perceptive as Robo-Sam was, except –

Except that soulless Sam didn't really _care_ about anything except getting the job done. If witnesses were fibbing about the tiniest detail he'd call them on it, but I could get away with all the lies I wanted about being fine because even if he spotted the untruth he wouldn't bother to probe.

The first few times I was relieved when, "I'm fine, Sam," made him shut up, because I wasn't in the mood for a debate.

Then, when I kind of wanted to talk but needed him to push me so I didn't feel like a wuss, I hoped he would call bullshit. He didn't, so I put a tiny bit of doubt in my voice and hoped he would call bullshit _then_.

Then he just stopped asking.

And now, now when I desperately need Sam to believe me –

_Please, Sam, there may be nothing I can do to help you if the wall comes down –_

When it feels like everything I care about in the entire world depends on it –

_Quit asking, Sam, just trust me on this one –_

He's looking at me with those _eyes_ and I know this isn't the end of it.

* * *

Those _eyes_?

Love 'em.

Six months working with Terminator and I'd forgotten what it was like working a case with _Sammy_. The first witness we go to doesn't want to talk to us right now, and I'm about to smile and act understanding and ask her when we can come back because that's what I _did _backwhen all Sam did was to look at people with that unnerving perceptive grin.

Now? I'm about halfway through opening my mouth when I realize that Sam's already saying something, but the girl isn't listening to what he's saying because she's too busy falling for the puppy-dog eyes.

Score one for the Winchesters.

* * *

Actually, make that score about twenty for the Winchesters.

It just feels so damn _good _to be able to be _me _again. It was exhausting being Jiminy Cricket for both myself and Sam. Most of it was trying to guess what Sammy would do and what Sammy wouldn't do but would let me do and what he would actually prevent me from doing.

And here we are, brand new day, re-souled Sammy, bitchface when I tell him I took the girl's diary, and I feel like everything's right in the world again. Killing evil sons of bitches I get, but understanding the nuances of right and wrong is Sammy's business and it's an incredible relief to have him back on the job.

Doesn't matter that he's stopped being a human lie detector with random people we interview (although I wish he didn't save it all for me). Doesn't matter that his aim's not going to be as perfect anymore because his hands are going to tremble just the tiniest bit at the thought of snuffing out any life, even a monster's. Nothing matters except that I have my little brother back and so I can do my_ real_ job and Sam has his soul back and so he can do _his_.

* * *

I want to ask how Sam got the sword when I couldn't but I don't because I'm pretty sure that's going to involve him getting to call me a Hobbit. Freaking nerd. He doesn't do it often – not nearly as often as I call him a giant. (Well, let's face it – I'm _not_ short, and Sam _is _tall enough for eight men.)

I want to yell at Sam for turning around to help _me_ without finishing off the dragon that was threatening _him_. (And we all know what'll happen then. "What would _you _have done, Dean?" As though that's _anything _like the same thing. I'm the big brother. I do the protecting. Sam's _Sam _and he does the bitchfaces and the puppy-dog eyes and he doesn't turn his back on something that can make its hands go red-hot.)

But what I want to do more than anything is go down on my knees and thank Death, because worrying about Sammy getting hurt is a lot better than having nightmares of what Lucifer and Michael might be doing to him.

* * *

Sam knows.

He apologizes, and through the heart-stopping terror I have one thought.

_Fake it. Lie. Stall. Freaking anything, do anything but tell him the truth and maybe this will go away._

Winchester luck? Sam just gives me a _look_ and he knows and I know and there's no point pretending. I'd shove it under the carpet if I could, but this is the geek who never let a question go unanswered in his entire life. If I don't talk to him he'll start trying to remember, and if he scratches at the wall –

I suppress that firmly. If I don't think about it, maybe the wall will stay up.

… And here we go again. Sam Winchester guilt trip. I _knew _this would happen. This is _Sam_, after all.

That's what I'm trying to get through to him, incidentally. He's Sam, and the thing up here wasn't. He can't hold himself responsible for crap that happened upstairs while he was being tortured by two Archangels, especially when _upstairs_ only exists because he gave himself up to that torture.

I mean, it's logical, right? It makes perfect sense. My brother the pre-law student should freaking _get _it.

But he doesn't.

I realize, as I look at him, that I don't want him to get it any more than I want him to shoot a possessed human being with a hand that doesn't shake.

It's stupid. He's going to worry. I'm going to worry. He's not going to eat. I'm going to nag him. He's going to have nightmares. I'm going to wake him up. He's going to fall asleep in the Impala because he can't sleep at night. I'm going to let him.

Sam's not the perfect hunter anymore. I thought I'd regret that, because there's no denying that it's _useful_ having that guy around, but I don't. I _can't_. Not when Sam's sitting across from me with those wide sad eyes and I just _know_ he's waiting for us to get on the road again so he can make me pull over and angst at me in the middle of nowhere.

And that's just the way it should be.

I have him back.

My brother.

My best friend.

Sammy.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!

And good luck for Friday… I can see myself wearing my nails down to nothing before we're there.


	10. Acceptance

**Disclaimer:** I don't own a thing.

Many thanks to Cheryl for helping – as always!

Thanks to cookjar, fanotheboyz, SandyDee84, angeleyenc, godsdaughter77, cold kagome, Kathryn Marie Black, twomom, Lucian32, Klutzygirl33, casammy and BranchSuper for the reviews!

**Summary:** The moments immediately after the end of 6.13, "Unforgiven".

* * *

**Acceptance**

I know what's happening. I know, and _God _I wish I didn't.

"Sammy, come on… Don't do this."

He's not hearing me. He's somewhere in his own head, somewhere Lucifer and Michael are doing horrible things to him, and he's not hearing me.

"Sammy, _please_."

There's no response, no sign of recognition. All of a sudden I'm praying to a God I don't really believe in.

_Please. Don't do this to him. Please. Just let me have my brother back and that's it. I'll never ask for anything again. Please._

Sam's shaking, _convulsing_, and I get myself back against the wall so there's something to support us. He's freaking _huge_ – all that muscle he put on doesn't come light – and it takes some effort, but eventually I settle him. I've got one hand holding his head on my shoulder and the other pressing down on his back, keeping his arms trapped between us so he can't flail and hurt himself.

_Please._

"Sammy, I'm here. Got that, kiddo? I'm here. You're safe."

I keep the litany up, not feeling anything except the weight in my arms, until, what seems like _hours _later, I can feel the convulsions becoming less intense. I hope it's not my imagination.

"Sammy?" There's a mumble that doesn't sound like words. I know from years of experience that it's a semiconscious Sam trying to get his tongue around my name. "I'm here, Sammy."

Sam's first reaction – the kid hasn't even stopped _shaking _yet – is to try to sit up, but he's as weak as a newborn colt and after a couple of aborted attempts he gives up and slumps against my shoulder.

"Sorry."

"That's OK, Sam."

"You told me so."

"Yeah. I did."

"You love saying that."

"Not like _this_," I snap, harsher than I intended.

Sam shrinks back against my arm. I sigh. It would be ridiculous that he's trying to get away from me by burrowing his head into my shoulder if it weren't perfectly natural for him to expect me to protect him from everything.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"Sam, what happened?"

Silence, Sam's hair tickling my chin, and then, "I was back there."

He pushes up again, and this time he manages it. I let him, because I need to be able to look him in the eye. Sam doesn't go far, just leans on the wall next to me. He pretends his fingers aren't still curled around the hem of my shirt. I pretend I don't notice them there.

"The wall?" I ask.

"It's still there. Just… just a leak, I guess. A little one."

"What did you see?"

I'm expecting evasion, so I'm surprised when Sam says, "Fire. Lots of fire. I was… burning alive."

"Sam…"

"That wasn't the worst of it." I shut my mouth at once, not saying a word. He's willing to talk, and I'm not doing _anything_ that might screw it up. "I mean, it was bad _physically_, you know, the pain and all that, but that wasn't the worst of it. It felt… I felt… _hopeless_. Like… like there was nothing left to fight for. I was alone and it hurt and… I wanted to – to stop existing. Just – totally – stop."

I remember what Castiel said. Sam's soul felt like it had been skinned alive.

I am not going to throw up. I am not going to throw up.

I reach out a hand. Sam doesn't pull away, which is another surprise. I ruffle his hair and then slide my hand down to squeeze the nape of his neck. It seems to calm him. It sure as hell calms _me_ to feel the pulse under my thumb.

"You're not alone, Sam."

"I know."

"You have to stop this. It's too dangerous."

"I know it's dangerous."

"Do you?"

"You were right," Sam admits. "I can't – it isn't remembering the pain that's so bad. I remember how I _felt_. I thought I was going to be there forever, I was never going to see you again, and –"

"_Stop_, Sam. Don't think about it. It's going to be OK. You're going to be OK. Trust me."

"Dean, even if I never touch it again, it's not going to stay up forever."

"Doesn't mean you have to hurry the process." I squeeze Sam's neck again. "You just try not to poke at it. If something happens, we'll deal with it, I promise. We'll take time off if we have to – get a place somewhere and I can do some construction crap again, maybe hustle pool on good nights." Sam looks at me, and I manage a smile. "I know, I'm the world's most awesome big brother, right?"

The biggest surprise of the night is when Sam just nods. "Yeah."

"Sammy? You OK?"

"Just trying to be nice." A heartbeat, and then, "What now?"

"How about a few days off?"

"No job?"

I'm about to say yes, but then I stop and think about it. No work, getting dead drunk and taking a girl home would work for me, and it would've worked for Soulless Sam, but for my little brother? I can just _see _him nursing one beer for three hours and brooding without meaning to. We take time off, we might as well just blow up the damn wall.

"We'll find a job," I say. "Something simple, you know. Regular salt-and-burn." Sam flinches at the word _burn_ and I curse myself. "Sorry, kiddo. What I meant was… How about a Wendigo? Or maybe we could try to track down Bigfoot? Shouldn't be too hard; he'll probably think you're a long-lost cousin."

Sam cracks a smile, and I feel like the best big brother in the whole freaking _universe_.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. I should've listened to you."

"I can't believe I'm saying this," I tell him, "but… Well, I'm glad you didn't. The _other _Sam, the one I had for six months, _that _Sam would've done what I wanted. He wouldn't even have needed me to tell him. But _you_ – you could never worry about keeping yourself safe when innocent lives are on the line. I'm not saying you didn't scare the crap out of me, but that's _you_. Just… Don't do it again, OK? I know you feel guilty, but you don't have to." He hesitates. "_Think _about it, Sam. You were in the Cage. You _can't_ be in two places at once – if you were down there, then the guy up here wasn't you." He still doesn't look convinced, and I go for the trump card, "Come on, Sam. What about me? What do you think I'm going to do if I lose you again?"

"_Dean! _That's not fair." But I know it's a token protest. I have him. He sighs, squirms, and finally says, "You want me to just give up, not even try to set things right?"

"Yeah."

"I wouldn't do this for anyone else, you know," Sam grumbles.

"That's my boy."

* * *

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	11. As Long as You're Here

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

This is for Cheryl, who wanted something gooey after 6.14, with thanks for reading my stuff and listening to my ranting!

Thanks to Malleus Beneficarum, twomoms, Kathryn Marie Black, godsdaughter77, cold kagome, doyleshunny, criminally charmed, angeleyenc, cookjar, BranchSuper, SandyDee84, KKBELVIS and TinTin11 for the reviews!

**Summary:** Post-6.14 the boys have a chat.

* * *

**As Long as You're Here**

I should've known how I'd find Sam.

I come into our motel room with donuts and coffee and there he is, sitting back in one of the chairs staring into space with a little line between his eyebrows. It's a classic Sam Winchester brooding expression, and right now that's my cue to snap him out of it. I don't want Sam brooding. When we're not on the job, I don't want him thinking about anything other than – well, I don't know what would give Supergeek happy thoughts. A library, maybe?

Whatever. The brooding needs to end.

I put the coffee on the table and offer him a donut. He makes a face.

"Come on, dude," I urge. "Eat it and you can have your latte. I asked her to put cinnamon in it."

"I can't believe you're trying to bribe me with coffee," Sam says, and thank _God _he's saying something.

"I can't believe you need to be bribed to eat a donut," I retort. "Did Dad and I forget some vital part of your upbringing, Sam? Or were you just born without taste buds?" Sam makes to reach past me for the coffee, but I grab it before he can. "No, Sam. I'm serious. Look, if you don't want the donuts we'll get you something else, but you _need _to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Tough. You weren't hungry last night, either, and you're not getting caffeine on an empty stomach."

"_Dean_ _…_"

In the end he eats the donut. Not until I threaten to tie him down and force-feed him, true, but he eats it. And then drinks the coffee. It seems to settle him, and he goes back to researching our current job. He's not 100% in it, and he's still brooding a little, but it's a small victory.

* * *

I go to bed first. Sam's up with his laptop and another cup of coffee. I wish he'd get some sleep, because he looks exhausted, but I know there's no use saying anything to him. He'll go to bed when he goes to bed, and I'll let him sleep in tomorrow.

When I wake up, the bedside clock tells me it's four in the morning. The room's quiet. And dark. And, except for me, empty.

I'm on the verge of panicking, but the window's open and I spot Sam outside. He's sitting on the steps leading up to our door nursing something in a cup. I can't tell what it is but I hope desperately that he's not got hold of hard liquor from somewhere because the last thing we need now is Sam getting drunk. Sam drunk is the only thing broodier than Sam sober.

I get up, put on my jacket and shoes and go out. Sam's sitting on the bottom step, those long legs of his stretched out across the gravel path. This close I can smell what he's drinking – and finally _something's_ going my way because it's just coffee. Coffee that's gone cold if he's been out here for any length of time, but still coffee and not tequila.

"Hey, Sammy."

There's no response. I wasn't expecting one.

I sit on the top step. It takes a minute, but eventually Sam shifts closer to me and lets his head rest on my knee. It's awkward – he's too tall for it to be comfortable for either of us. But then I feel the first tear splashing onto the fabric of my jeans and suddenly there are more important things to worry about than whether Sam's back will ache from this.

I don't tell him not to cry, because I have a feeling he needs it.

I grab him and tug him closer. Sam ends up sobbing into my jacket and I end up holding him like I did after Jessica, after Madison, after bloody Gabriel forced him to watch me die all those times.

When he finally calms down, I prod gently, "Sam? You want to talk about it?"

"I'm _sorry_."

"You can pay my dry-cleaning bill," I say lightly, and Sam shakes his head.

"Not that. Just… Lisa and Ben. I'm sorry."

"Well, don't be. It wasn't your fault."

"If you didn't have to worry about when I'm going to turn into a drooling idiot –"

"_Shut up, Sam._" There are some things that are not funny, some things we don't even joke about. _Ever._ "It isn't about you."

"Dean –"

"It's _not_." I give him a small push. He sits up and scoots back down, leaning his head on my knee again. If he's been remembering Hell then he needs human contact to anchor himself to reality – I know that better than anyone else. "It's true that I don't want to leave you on your own, but I could've persuaded Lisa to move into a place big enough for you to live with us, too."

"Yeah, because every girl wants her boyfriend's helpless little brother living with them."

"You're not helpless and I'm not saying Lisa would've loved the plan. But she might have gone with it if I'd promised that we'd both stay out of the life for good."

"You didn't even try, though."

"I couldn't. That's not me, Sam. It isn't just about wanting normal. A hunter _can't_ retire to an apple-pie life. If you're going to retire, it has to be a cabin in the middle of nowhere. No cell phones, no Internet, no contact with the outside world."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, the year I lived with Lisa, I didn't know or care what was happening to the world. All I cared about was what was happening to _you _and trying to find a way to bring you back."

"And now I'm back."

"You're back and you have your soul. Think about it. Let's say we retire tomorrow. If you wake up one morning and read a newspaper report about something that seems like our kind of problem, do you really think you'll be able to fold up the paper and go to a regular job and pretend you didn't see anything? You'll be able to just sit by and do nothing, _knowing_ that every hour's delay might mean an innocent person dying?"

"You stayed out of it for a year."

"Because you weren't there. I was too busy trying not to turn into a miserable, sobbing mess to have time to worry about the jobs I wasn't taking."

Sam sighs. "I'm still sorry."

"For what?"

"That you couldn't have the life you wanted."

I reach out and muss Sam's hair. He leans up into the touch, and the fact that under most circumstances he'd be shoving me off him just makes it even more adorable.

Not that I'd ever tell him that.

"You had it for a year," Sam mumbles. "Normal, happy life. You could've had it longer."

"I had a _normal_ life," I correct quietly. "You remember telling me you never really fit in at Stanford, Sam? Well, I didn't fit into Lisa's world. I tried, because I promised you I would, but I never did. I had to lie to everyone – lie about my past, about what I did, about why I wasn't in touch with any of my family… And that hurt more than I thought it would."

"So I guess we don't get normal."

"No, we don't. But we get for you to be alive _with _your soul. We get to kick some monster ass and we get to have each other's backs and go down fighting." Sam nods, but doesn't speak. "There anything else you need to tell me, Sammy?"

Because I know worrying about Lisa wasn't what caused the breakdown.

"No," Sam whispers, his voice shaking a little. There's a short pause and then, stronger, "No… I'm fine. As long as you're here."

"I don't have anywhere else to be."

We sit like that, Sam's head on my knee, my hand at the nape of his neck where he's still got the soft curls I remember from when he was three, and wait for the sunrise.

* * *

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	12. Place of Safety

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

As always, thanks to Cheryl for being a sounding-board and reading the first draft.

Thanks to SandyDee84, stephaniew, angeleyenc, fanotheboyz, godsdaughter77, cold kagome, Kathryn Marie Black, casammy, Mrs Winchester, TinTin11, Klutzygirl33, cookjar, BranchSuper, jelpy, jensengirl4eva, twomoms, Jane88, scootersmom, Hunnique and Scribble2Much for the reviews!

**Summary:** Sam is brooding. Dean is worried. And Sam doesn't understand. Tag to 6.16, "And Then There Were None".

* * *

**Place of Safety**

Sam had almost forgotten what it felt like to have Dean step between him and a potential threat.

The fact was that Sam was no longer a kid who needed protecting, and they both knew it. He could defend himself against most things, normal or supernatural, that wanted to hurt him.

But sometimes he _couldn't _defend himself. Sometimes there were no physical threats. There was no incantation or rite or sigil to protect him from his own nightmares.

When he and Dean had cornered their grandfather, when he'd been on the verge of lowering his guard and asking Samuel what he'd done, Dean had interrupted, overruled him, and placed himself firmly between Sam and the older hunter. Anyone looking would have thought it was funny: Dean was tall and powerful, but Sam was taller and broader and every last pound that he had on his big brother was pure muscle. Sam almost hadn't believed his own reaction. He'd expected to feel furious that Dean was treating him like a kid. _Again._

And, yeah, he _had_ been a bit put out, but no more than he was when Dean tried to stuff an entire burger into his mouth at once or filled his hard drive with porn or did anything else obnoxious and big-brotherly. He'd been exasperated, sure, but his overwhelming emotion had been relief.

Sam lay in bed, eyes shut, trying to let the sound of Dean's even breathing lull him to sleep. It was four in the morning when he gave up and decided to get some fresh air.

He tried to be quiet, but it was an old motel and one of the floorboards creaked under his boots.

Dean mumbled, "Shut up and go to sleep, Sammy," without waking up.

Sam knew that if it had been anyone else, even Bobby, in the room, Dean would have sensed it, woken, and gone for the knife under his pillow. The knowledge made him feel a little guilty for slipping out without telling his brother, but he pushed the pang down. He wasn't walking out on Dean. He was just taking a stroll, and they both needed the space.

* * *

Dean stirred when he sensed movement in the room. His big brother radar told him it was just Sammy, and he was about to roll over and go back to sleep.

Then his big brother radar said _Sammy in trouble_ and he smelt blood and suddenly he was wide awake, fumbling for the light switch and wrestling Sam onto his bed.

"What happened?" Dean growled.

"Dude, I'm fine."

"The hell you are." Dean hissed at the sight of blood snaking down Sam's cheek. He tilted Sam's head towards him, hissing again when he saw the deep gash running from his brother's temple to his ear. "Who did this?"

"Dean, calm down."

"I'll calm down when I've salted and burned the son of a bitch who thought it was a good idea to hurt you. _Who did this?_"

"Dean, it's OK."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You're bleeding from a head injury. It's not bloody OK, Sam! Where have you been?"

"Dean –"

"You think about leaving a note?"

"I was just going for a walk! And you were sleeping. You didn't even know I was gone."

Sam started to get up, but Dean shoved him back down almost violently. He was worried and angry enough to feel very little guilt (maybe more than a little, but nothing he couldn't ignore) at the startled gasp when his fingers dug into his brother's shoulder hard enough to hurt.

"Stay _here_," he ordered. "I'm going to get the first aid kit."

Dean stormed off, coming back a moment later with what he needed. He grabbed Sam's head and started to clean the cut. He probed the wound, frowning impatiently when Sam squirmed and tried to pull away. At a particularly ungentle touch, Sam pushed him off and snapped, "What the _hell_, Dean?"

"You're a little bitch."

"Thank you. That explains everything."

"I mean it, Sammy! You don't just take off in the middle of the night without telling me!"

"I went for a _walk_, Dean. I'm not freaking twelve! I can take care of myself."

"Evidently you can't. What came after you, Sam?"

"Dean, it's just a cut. Some drunk guy driving a pickup. I had to dive out of the way and I caught my head on the edge of the sidewalk. That's it, I swear."

* * *

Sam couldn't understand it. One moment Dean had been fast asleep and he'd been counting on being able to get to the bathroom and clean himself up, and the next he was on his bed with his brother standing over him and yelling at him.

And Sam didn't even know _why_.

Dean grabbed his head again, fingers so tight in his hair that it _hurt_, and dabbed at the cut with a cloth soaked in peroxide. He wasn't even _trying_ to be gentle. When he finally let Sam go it was only to thread a suture needle, and Sam found himself trembling in anticipation of the jab.

He wasn't the only one who was trembling. Dean fumbled at the thread once, twice, and finally cursed and dropped it in the first aid kit like it was a snake. He put some butterfly bandages on the cut, and Sam thought he was done at last.

He should have known better.

Dean was back with a flashlight, shining it in his eyes. Sam tried to tell him that he didn't have a concussion but he might as well have saved his breath. Sam endured it as long as he could, but he was tired and he had a headache and the light was making it unbearably worse. In the end he pushed Dean away and scooted back, fully expecting his big brother to bark at him to be still and start tweaking his toes next.

Dean just slumped heavily onto his bed, resting his bowed head in his hands.

Sam waited.

"Dean?" he tried at last.

"Shut the hell up, Sam."

"Are you OK?"

"I'm tired, I'm broke, I haven't had a decent night's sleep for _weeks_, and now my brother has a death wish. I'm bloody _fine_, Sam."

Dean didn't look fine. His shoulders were shaking, tiny tremors wracking his body, and his fingers were digging into his scalp as though he had the grandmother of all migraines. Sam debated with himself for a moment. Finally deciding that he could hardly make it _worse_, he shifted to the other bed, bumping his knee lightly against Dean's.

"Dude, what?"

"You little idiot," Dean muttered, not looking up. "Don't you _get _it?"

* * *

"Get what?"

Dean resisted the urge to clock his brother. He couldn't help feeling that Sam was being deliberately dense.

"A head injury, Sam. _Damn it._ You can't – we're lucky it's not serious and you're OK. What if…"

Dean trailed off, unable to finish the thought. He heard a soft sigh from beside him.

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"We have no idea what could set it off," Dean said desperately, needing Sam to understand. "A head injury – dude, we can't take risks with those. We can't take risks with head injuries in any case, and _especially_ not with you now. And you were just going to mop it up yourself and hope I didn't notice!"

"I'm sorry," Sam repeated. Then, quietly, in a voice that was almost _scared_, "Dean?"

"What?"

"He didn't have a gun on me."

"What're you talking about?"

"Samuel. He didn't have a gun on me when I shot him. He said he was going put it down so we could talk."

"So why'd you shoot him?"

Dean did his best to make sure there wasn't the slightest bit of censure in his tone. He was sure Sam would've had a good reason for killing their grandfather and he wanted to know what it was, but he didn't want Sam to think he was upset.

"He kept talking about it… He said he could tell me about the year I was with him and what I did. He wouldn't stop _talking_." Sam shivered, and Dean edged closer. "And I could _feel_ it, Dean. Like there was pressure building up in my head and I knew if he said anything I'd remember and I tried to make him stop talking but he _wouldn't_ and –"

"So you did the right thing," Dean interrupted before Sam could work himself up.

"He wasn't going to kill me."

"He might have brought the wall down, and that would've destroyed you just as much. It would've destroyed _me_, Sam. Ican't… Look, I know all that crap about the natural order and how we can't keep tearing it up, but if something happens to you –"

"You'll try to be happy," Sam interrupted sharply.

"Sure I can try. I _will _try. Don't know if it'll work."

"Dean –"

"I can promise not to try to bring you back, Sam. If you die before me, I won't go to the crossroads. But that's the only thing I can promise."

* * *

"Don't be stupid!" Sam's head was suddenly full of horrific visions of Dean bleeding out on a filthy motel room floor because Sam had gotten in the way of some drunk driver. "You can't – you _won't_." When there was no response, he said more urgently, "Dean, promise me. Promise me you won't do anything stupid if something happens to me."

"I will if you will."

Sam slumped, knowing he'd lost the argument. "What are we going to do?"

"You're going to tell me you'll be careful, and you're going to _mean _it." Sam opened his mouth, but before he could protest, Dean went on, "_Really_, Sam. When we went after Samuel you _asked _him to tell you what happened."

"I have to know!"

"No, you _don't_."

"Dean, I _killed _him."

"Good. I'm sorry _you _had to do it, Sammy, but I'm not sorry he's dead. I just wish I could've done it for you."

"Who knows what I did to him, Dean? Maybe he had reason to hate me!"

"Dude, if you hung out with him for a year, there's no way he could _not _have noticed that something was off. You're his grandson, and he was so obsessed with his arrangement with Crowley that he didn't even _try_ to figure out what was wrong." Dean let out a long breath. "You can't keep doing this, Sammy. _Please._"

"I'm not trying to scratch the wall, Dean."

"You need to stop all of it. No brooding. No angst. No what-ifs. You stop thinking about the Apocalypse, or Lucifer, or Lilith, or _anything_ that might set it off. We keep looking for jobs, we keep ourselves busy, we do whatever we have to do to keep your mind off it."

"That might not be enough."

"Maybe. But we're not going to help the wall come down. If it happens we'll deal with it, but we are going to do our best to keep it from happening. That means you don't think about it, you don't ask people about it, and you don't take walks without telling me where you're going. I have to be able to get to you quickly if something goes wrong. I know it's hard and I seem like an overprotective douchebag right now, but this is Lucifer's Cage we're talking about. Just humour me."

"Fine."

Dean looked at him in surprise. "That's it? Fine?"

Sam grinned. "You're right. I can't risk getting trapped in my own head. Someone needs to look out for you."

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the relief in them. "Shut up and go to sleep before I knock you out, Sam."

And Sam didn't complain when Dean checked his cut again, hands feather-light this time, and peered into his face before manhandling him over to the other bed and getting him under the covers.

* * *

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	13. Muddled Priorities

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine.

**Author's Note:** I'm running a bit late on tags, aren't I? There will be a tag to _Frontierland _as well, probably in a couple of days.

Thanks (as always) to Cheryl.

Thanks to Our Eleventh Hour, Jane88, SandyDee84, fanotheboyz, godsdaughter77, angeleyenc, cold kagome, Kathryn Marie Black, BranchSuper, mrs winchester, casammy, TinTin11, Sparkiebunny, Scribble2Much, Lucian32 and jensengirl4eva for the reviews!

**Summary:** After the events of _My Heart Will Go On_, Dean's brooding. He's not the only one.

* * *

**Muddled Priorities**

I have a secret.

Well, _duh_. I'm a hunter, aren't I? I was raised in the life. (That phrase always gets to me. "Raised in the life"? Seriously, what the _hell_? That makes it sound like you were born to royalty, when what it actually means is that you had the misfortune to spend your adolescence chasing black dogs instead of pretty girls.)

Yeah, so I have a lot of secrets. But there are very few things about me that nobody knows at all.

Sam, of course, knows just about everything there is to know, even the things I would never openly admit.

Of course, sometimes he's wrong. For instance, Sam seems to think I like hot chocolate with marshmallows. When he's happy with me he'll pretend he wants some, drink a sip, make a face, and push the mug at me. I finish it – because, you know, marshmallows, chocolate, can't go too far wrong with that – but that doesn't mean I want it. Because I totally, totally don't. Really.

Sam knows what freaks me out.

Like barking dogs. I mean, really, what is _up _with them? You'd think their owners were _trying _to give passersby heart attacks. A few weeks ago we had to pass a dog-walker in the street – the guy had two pit bulls that were straining at their leashes, growling and snapping at bloody _everything_. I was just contemplating diving into the nearest doorway when Sam materialized between me and the dogs. And he didn't budge until they'd gone.

Sometimes it's actually useful that he's twenty feet tall.

There _are _things Sam doesn't know, because there are some things you just don't discuss with a brother –

At least, there are things I _think_ Sam doesn't know. Considering that it's _Sam_, I wouldn't bet actual money on it.

Anyway, as I said, I have a secret, an _actual _secret – something not even Sammy knows. I didn't until a few hours ago, but now I do.

I can't let anyone find out.

The thing is, everyone knows how much I care about Sammy. It would be easier if people didn't, but it's not something I'm very good at hiding. Sometimes Sam's better than I am at that. Like I said, everyone knows how much I care about Sammy. Not a whole lot of people know there's a large part of _Sammy_ that still thinks his big brother makes the world go round. _I _do, of course, and it makes me feel…

Well, like I'm feeling now.

In broad daylight, it seems a little silly. I can understand why Lisa freaked out. I mean, here's Sam Winchester, big enough to make three normal-sized hunters, and every ounce that isn't part of his freakish brain is solid muscle. Sam, right now, looks like he could go twelve rounds with a block of cement and _win_.

And here's Dean Winchester, thinking Megatron actually needs _protection_.

People think _that's_ the weird thing, but it isn't. The weird thing is that Sam _does _need protection, but only if I'm the one providing it.

_Anyway_, the reason I'm awake and engaging in a chick-flick moment with myself is that Sam's awake and brooding. After our little trip into Balthazar's alternate universe, I'm not surprised. What with Ellen and Jo and the fifty thousand other people, Sam's entitled to a guilt trip. I just wish he'd talk to me, because I _know _it makes him feel better.

We're sleeping in the Impala tonight – we left Bobby's to track down some possible demonic activity in Louisiana. For some reason neither of us really wanted a motel, so I pulled over into an empty field, Sam drew a ring of protective runes and laid the salt lines, and now we're both leaning away from each other pretending to be asleep.

Come to think of it, I have absolutely no idea why we scrunch ourselves into the front seat when we need to sleep in the Impala. There _is _a backseat, and considering what a giant Sam is – and I'm not exactly short, either – it would be way more comfortable for one of us to use it.

I don't mean now, of course. Right now Sam's broody and vulnerable, and I'm staying as close to him as I can. I don't have a lot of faith in Death's plaster-job, and if there's so much as a hint of a nightmare, I want nothing, not even my baby's seats, to be between me and Sam. I just mean… you know, generally. In principle. There's nothing actually _wrong _with one of us sleeping in the back.

_Anyway_ – keep getting sidetracked – I have a secret. And the reason I'm not asking Sam too many questions though he's _obviously _upset is that when I do, I usually wind up saying more than I intend.

* * *

I don't think my resolve is going to last much longer.

The kid is obviously miserable. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve to be allowed to stew for a bit just on principle, but… It's Sam. I can't. Even though he's probably upset about Ellen and Jo and I know I can't do a thing to help him, I can't just leave him be.

I shift closer to him. "It sucks, huh, Sam?"

"I liked Ellen," Sam says. He sounds almost defensive. "And Jo. I _did_. I didn't – I didn't expect that Cas would re-sink the ship."

"I know, Sammy. Neither did I."

Sam turns to me. He's moving slowly, like he's too tired or too frustrated or he just doesn't freaking care anymore. "I'm sorry."

I feel myself stiffen. I know that tone. It's the tone Sam uses when he's done something and he's not sorry he did it but he's very sorry I'm mad about it.

"What is it, Sammy?"

Sam flings himself at me. It's a stupid thing to do – we're in a tiny, enclosed space, and the front seat of the Impala isn't really made for chick-flick moments. (Why do you think we always have them on the hood?) The reproof dies on my lips, though, when I feel him grab my shirt and hold on like it's the only thing that can save his life.

"It's OK, kiddo. It's going to be OK."

I don't know what has Sam upset. I don't know what the problem is. But I _do _know it's going to be OK, because whatever it is, I'm going to _make _it OK.

"Don't hate me."

"Don't be stupid. Tell me what it is." When Sam doesn't respond, I rest a hand on his head. "C'mon," I say, light and teasing. "Tell big brother."

Sam laughs into my shirt, and I feel like I've won a prize.

"That's it," I encourage, only halfway joking now. "Tell me."

"Ellen and Jo," Sam says softly, pulling away. "I – I _did _care about them, Dean."

"I know you did."

"But I just – I _couldn't_. When I figured out what happened, that Cas re-sunk the ship – I – I _did _feel bad about them, and I would've done anything to bring them back, but…"

"But?" I prompt when he trails off.

"But not at first. I mean, I was sorry they were dead, but that wasn't the first thing I thought. I mean, I didn't even think about them at first."

"So what did you think about?"

"I was – I was just glad you were still here."

Huh.

Sam says it like he's confessing to a horrific crime and he's waiting for me to disown him.

Does the kid not know me at _all_? Or, more to the point, does the kid think _I_ don't know _him_ at all?

"That's natural, Sam," I point out. "You were relieved that I was still around, and it took you a few seconds to register that Ellen and Jo were gone. I can't really blame you. Let's face it, I'm the most awesome brother in the world. Who else would put up with your endless brooding?"

"I couldn't do it," Sam mumbles. "If something happened to you. You stayed strong when I was gone. You stayed out of it. You were happy with Ben and Lisa, you didn't do anything stupid, didn't try to bring me back until – well, until the other me showed up. I _can't_, Dean. I'm not strong enough."

It takes me a moment to work through that. When I do, I don't know whether to hug him or hit him.

On the one hand, Sam seems to think he's paying me a compliment, which doesn't happen often. On the other, he seems to think that if something happens to him, my reaction is going to be to sit on my ass and do nothing about it.

Even worse, he seems to think that when he was in the Cage, my reaction was to sit on my ass, enjoy the neighbourhood barbecues and do nothing about the fact that my little brother was being tortured in ways that even I couldn't begin to imagine.

"I was drinking too much," I tell him. I don't know why I'm saying it – I don't know why it _matters_ – but suddenly it seems like the most important thing in the world for Sam to _stop _believing that I was perfectly happy without him. "And I was looking. Sam, I swear I was. I _was_ looking for ways to bring you back. I don't know why I didn't think of contacting Death earlier, but if I had – I would've done it."

Sam frowns, but he doesn't look entirely convinced.

Maybe I don't need to keep my secret from _everyone_. Anyway, when it comes to me and Sam and secrets, the fewer the better.

"You know what my first reaction was?" I ask. Sam looks at me expectantly. "I was just relieved that we were there together, because if – if you'd been dead or in Hell and someone had told me that I could bring you back by sinking the _Titanic_…"

"You wouldn't have," Sam says calmly.

"You think so? I'm not so sure. And anyway, even if I hadn't done it, I would have resented everyone who was alive because of Balthazar's little trick. Hell, I would've hated Ellen and Jo – wouldn't have been their fault, but I would still have hated them. I might never have gone to Bobby's again."

"Oh." Sam pauses, thinks for a minute. "So we're both pretty screwed up," he offers at last.

"No," I say, settling back down and hoping that this time we'll both get some sleep. "We're _brothers_."

And I don't complain when Sam's head drops onto my shoulder.

* * *

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	14. Ride 'Em, Cowboy

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Author's Note:** So here it is, the promised tag to _Frontierland_. This is a (late) birthday present for Cheryl, with my thanks for all the help, proofreading of stories and listening to ranting.

Thanks to Scribble2Much, Katy M VT, TinTin11, Kathryn Marie Black, SandyDee84, godsdaughter77, angeleyenc, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien and Sparkiebunny for reviewing the last chapter.

**Summary:** Dean's thoughts as he and Sam stand at Elias Finch's grave. Tag to 6.18, _Frontierland_.

* * *

**Ride 'Em, Cowboy**

OK, so Clint Eastwood… Well, he didn't _lie_, I'm not saying he _lied_. I'm just saying that he… maybe… Stretched the truth a little. And I totally understand that. Man's got to eat. If he'd gone for _authenticity_ he'd still be waiting tables or mowing lawns or doing whatever it was he did to pay the rent before he figured out he looked good on a horse.

But the Wild West? In some ways, not all it's made out to be. Sure I _understand_ why my man Clint had to do what he did. Still, fact remains: I came here expecting Scarlett Johansson in a low-necked dress, and instead I got…

Yup. Sam's still snickering about it. _Moron._

Anyway, some things are just the same as in our world. Cemeteries don't change much from year to year – or from century to century – and this grave's no different from a thousand others we've dug up. (Of course we've got lanterns instead of flashlights, but they're pretty easy to hold when you get the hang of it.)

Right now Sam and I are staring into the empty coffin. I can sense him coming to the same realization I'm reaching myself: the phoenix isn't some awesome glowing magic bird and I'm not Harry Potter.

I take a moment to think. Got no idea how to kill a phoenix, cell phones don't work here and even if they did there's nobody to call. Hell, I don't even know if they had _normal _telephones in the Wild West. We'd probably have to telegraph for help or something, and get an answer sometime next week.

Well, when all else fails, there's _one _weapon we can count on…

We can't both go to Samuel Colt, though. It'll take a while to get there. I doubt Finch is going to do us the favour of sitting pretty until we have the gun. Dude's out for revenge, and I don't think they were big on patience in 1861.

Not good. _Definitely _not good. I'm not thrilled by the idea of Sam and me splitting up on a job even normally. The kid's always been a magnet for trouble. And when you add the Great Wall of Sam and the fact that we're in bloody 1861 and if you believe Clint Eastwood (and, despite everything, I still do) the countryside is just _crawling_ with escaped felons who'll shoot first, steal your money, and not even bother to ask questions…

I clamp down on the protective instincts rising in my chest. Sam can take care of himself, and I know it. He's bigger and stronger than anything he's likely to meet out here.

But when he looks at me the way he is now, the way he's been doing all day, it's hard not to think of him as the kid who needed me to watch out for him. I mean, hunter or not, Bigfoot or not, Sam's… Well, he's Sam. He's wearing the shirt because I wanted him to and I know when we get back to our time he'll keep it because I got it for him (although he'll pretend it's because he can't find clothes in his size) and… It's not that he _can't_ draw his gun fast enough to kill anything nasty before it's had time to do more than register his presence. It's that he _won't_.

Six months with Robo-Sam taught me two things. First, Sam's a better hunter than I ever gave him credit for. He's fast, he's strong, he's got reflexes like a freaking Jedi. And _then_ there's the brain. Of course, it took Robo-Sam to show me that, because the second thing I realized was that Sam – _my _Sam – is a bigger softie than I ever imagined. Now that I know how fast he _can _shoot, it makes it so much more obvious every time he hesitates or holds back because he doesn't like to kill anything, not even a murdering monster that deserves it. (He only seems to be able to let his scruples go when monsters are threatening _me_, which is sweet of the kid but it also scares the hell out of me, because I _need _Sammy to look out for himself.)

Anyway, whether I like it or not, we need to split up.

For a moment I consider which would be safer for Sam – staying here and dealing with Finch's ghost, which is at least a _known_ threat, or going twenty miles out of town to meet Samuel Colt.

And then I realize it doesn't matter. (Or, well, it _does _matter, but I can't do anything about it.) Sam needs to go find Colt.

It isn't that I don't trust Sammy to deal with Finch and keep his prospective victims safe. He can do as much as I can, and neither of us can make any guarantees. It's more that… From what we've heard, I'm guessing Samuel Colt isn't too active anymore. He's either focused on building that railroad or he's retired altogether. One way or another, I don't think he's going to jump at the chance to come into town and shoot himself a phoenix. Someone needs to sweet-talk him, and Sam's the prime candidate for that.

Besides… I'm guessing Colt's going to need some explanations, and I don't totally trust myself to tell him just enough without giving away something I shouldn't and changing the future.

I register that Sam's asking what we can do about Finch, and I turn back to him.

"Well, we do know one thing that'll kill freaking anything, right?"

"Yeah." Sam shrugs. "The Colt."

"So? You go get the gun."

Sam looks doubtful. "But isn't the gun coming _here_? I mean, according to Samuel Colt's journal?"

"Yeah, but people here barely even know who Colt is," I point out. "Maybe you gotta go find him and make history." Sam's only response is an almost-bitchface. He probably thinks I plan to go back to the saloon and see if I can find some action. "I'll stay here, hook up with the posse." Sam doesn't look impressed. "'Cause you know me… I'm a posse magnet." Now Sam looks like he thinks there was more than just alcohol in the drink Elkins gave me. Stupid bitch. "I mean, I love posse."

At this point I'm just talking for the sake of it, because if I keep my mouth occupied with discussing posses I won't accidentally say something like, "Screw the job, Sammy. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

And… Well… I _do _love posse. Who doesn't want to be a cowboy? (Well, _Sam _clearly doesn't, but then _Sam _is clearly a girl.)

"Make that into a t-shirt," I go on, and happy thoughts of riding with the cowboys on the trail of a ghost are enough to make me _almost_ forget that I'm sending Sam out on his own.

Sam looks like he's not fooled. "You done?"

I duck my head a bit. I can't let Sam see my fear. If he thinks I'm scared…

_What if Colt doesn't like him?_

No way. Sam's just got to make the eyes and Colt'll do anything. I should know. Works on _me _all the time. It'd work on anyone except a demon –

_What if Colt's a demon?_

Colt's not a bloody demon. Colt's building his giant Devil's Trap to keep demons _out_.

_What if there are other demons there?_

What, Colt's running a monster zoo now? There won't be other demons there.

_They might be trying to stop him._

_Damn it._

That thought is almost too much. If the demons know what Colt is up to, they sure as hell _will _be trying to stop him. If Sam gets caught in the crossfire…

_God, no. _I can't lose him again.

"Look," Sam says with a sigh. "The problem is, Colt's twenty miles outside of town." I look up, and he's looking at me the way he used to, all big eyes and little brother. I can't help smiling at him: the Wild West might not be exactly _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_, but having Sammy here more than makes up for the lack of saloon girls. Having _my _Sammy here _with me_… That makes up for just about everything that's wrong in my life. "How am I supposed to get there and back before noon?"

Kid's got a point. We can't exactly hotwire a car.

A horse neighs somewhere behind me.

I turn to look. Sam's never ridden a horse before – at least, not that I know – and he might be sore for a couple of days, but it's not like we have a lot of options. Besides, animals usually like him.

I look back at Sam, who seems to have read my mind, because I can see he's getting ready to say no.

"Ride 'em, cowboy."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Ugly? ;-) Please review!


	15. Wrapping Paper

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Author's Note:** So, I didn't know what to do about this episode. I was going to let it go tagless. Then some chatting with Cheryl and SandyDee84 (a very big thank you to both of you) and a reminder that Sam has a new toy very close to his birthday, and…

Here you go. ;-)

Thanks to The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, Katy M VT, Sparkiebunny, Kathryn Marie Black, BranchSuper, TinTin11, SandyDee84, angeleyenc, godsdaughter77, and fanotheboyz for reviewing!

**Summary:** Tag to 6.19, _Mommy Dearest_. Sam lost a Blackberry not long ago, and had it returned to him unusable. Dean thinks he needs a replacement.

* * *

**Wrapping Paper**

It's Sam's birthday soon.

He's going to be twenty-nine.

Last time he and I actually celebrated together, he was turning eighteen. (I wanted to send him stuff for his birthdays when he was in college – hell, I wanted to send him stuff all the time when he was in college. But I was never sure if he'd take it, and if he'd thrown it out or, worse, sent it back… So I didn't.)

Anyway. Sammy. Turning twenty-nine. And it's going to be another sucky birthday for the poor kid.

Let's recap. Birthday Number Twenty-Three, Dad was in hospital, I was in a coma, and Sam was trying to handle everything by himself. Don't think he even remembered it was his birthday till he needed to sign his AMA forms, and even then I don't think he cared.

Birthday Number Twenty-Four – you know what, let's not even go there. It's been five years, but I still can't think about it.

Birthday Number Twenty-Five, I died and went to Hell. That's easier for me to think about than what happened on Birthday Number Twenty-Four, but what it did to Sam…

Birthday Number Twenty-Six, Lilith and Lucifer and a load of other crap like me calling Sam a monster and us barely speaking.

Birthday Number Twenty-Seven… Well, we _were _speaking to each other, but Sam was getting ready to throw himself into the Pit and I couldn't bring myself to give him a present or even to say Happy Birthday when I knew I was going to be losing him.

So what happened instead was that Sam went to brush his teeth and he emerged from the bathroom to find me – well, I wasn't _crying like a girl_, as Sam put it so crudely. Maybe just a few manly tears. And Sam hugged me like _I _was the one who was giving himself up to an eternity of the most horrific torture known to humankind. I rested my head on his chest and choked out apologies for the screwed-up lives we'd had and listened to his heartbeat, and Sam mumbled something about how he hoped I could forgive him, and I told him not be a bloody idiot, and it was all very emotional and chick-flicky but not exactly happy.

Birthday Number Twenty-Eight. Me at Lisa's – or, rather, at the bar near Lisa's, trying to drink my own body weight in alcohol. Soulless dick Sam doing whatever soulless dick Sam did. And Sammy – _my _Sammy – screaming in the Devil's Cage.

And now we come to Birthday Number Twenty-Nine. I don't know what the world's planning to throw at Sam _this _year, but I'm sure it's not going to be good.

But you know what? Screw the world.

Sam is going to have one happy day – the kid's not had a day's peace or rest since I dragged him away from nursing his post-Halloween hangover at Stanford. No apple-pie life, not one week of fun with a pretty girl, not even a bloody moment to recuperate from the last hit that came before the next one gets him. But screw Destiny or Fate or whoever it was who decided that my baby brother doesn't deserve a nice birthday, because I am making sure he's getting one.

So – first things first. I'm not buying Sam's birthday present with a fake credit card. Nope, I'm going to do some good, honest hustling at the nearest bar.

* * *

I've already decided what to get Sam. He needs a new phone – and _yes _he does, because a Sasquatch without a phone is a Sasquatch I can't contact whenever I need to. He says he'll get one next time he goes to town and there's no hurry because anyone who needs him knows where he is and can get him on my phone, but…

Yeah. Like I can keep an eye on Sam all the time, even at Bobby's.

Doesn't take long to find a place that looks dorky enough to sell the kind of stuff Sam would like.

I step in, and before I have time to do more than look around I'm ambushed by a pretty brunette who looks about sixteen. She grabs my arm, steers me towards a glass-topped counter, and asks if I'm looking for something.

Huh. She's a _girl_, isn't she? She might know what Sam would like.

I tell her it's my brother's birthday and I want to get him a cell phone.

The words are barely out of my mouth before I'm assaulted by a barrage of information. I hear 'Android' and 'Symbian' and '3G' and 'GSM' and 'CDMA' and a whole lot of other letters I don't get. And then there's something about the _frequency response_, which sounds like something you use to train dolphins.

Oh, _God_. I'm going to be conned here, I just know it. Should've brought Sam with me and let him pick what he wanted. He'd've CDMA-ed right back at the brunette and she'd have shut up and talked sense.

But that would've spoilt the surprise.

My eyes are glazing over, and she probably sees it because she sighs and says, "What does your brother use his phone for?" in the same tone you'd use to ask a screaming toddler which kind of candy will make him shut up.

"Umm… Well, he talks to people sometimes." _Brilliant_, Dean. Your brother uses his phone to talk to people. But, seriously, what the hell _else _did the girl expect me to say? "And… e-mail, I guess, and the Internet and whatever. And I leave him messages." Awesome. Way to sound like an idiot.

"So… Does he use it more to talk or more for the Internet and GPS?"

I think about that one. Honestly, Sam doesn't talk to people much these days.

"The Internet," I say, "but how does that –"

"Have you considered getting him a tablet, then? You obviously want to get him something portable and I don't think you want a laptop –"

"_What?_" I yelp, wondering how the hell me buying Sam a phone turned into the Prom Queen trying to sell me a laptop. "No, he's got a laptop. He _likes_ his laptop. Hell, _I_ like his laptop, it's gotten us out of a lot of sticky situations. He doesn't need a laptop."

"Of course not," the girl agrees, like she wasn't just trying to get me to buy one. "What you want is a tablet."

This sounds vaguely familiar from listening to Ben chatter about his school and his friends. Should've paid more attention. I doubt I'd've learned much, because Ben didn't really hang out with the geek gang, but at least I'd've known more than I do now, which is jack squat.

"I want to get Sammy a phone," I say weakly.

"This is better than a phone," the girl assures me. "Your brother's going to find it really useful. Why don't you just take a look? There's no obligation; you don't have to buy it unless you like it."

* * *

You know what? That tablet thing is kind of cool. In fact, it's _really_ cool. It's _awesome_.

It's _way _smaller than a laptop – in Sam's giant hands, it probably _would _look like a phone. It's all sleek and high-tech and I just _know _Sam would love it.

The point – as I keep reminding myself – is that Sam doesn't need it. Sam's got a laptop, and he did some jury-rigging himself. Added RAM and did something he told me was called _overclocking_ and ramped up the motherboard and – well, loads of geeky stuff. Point is, the damn thing's practically a supercomputer. He doesn't need a douched-up Etch-a-Sketch that can't decide if it's a cell phone or a laptop.

Except… well… I kind of _want _him to have the douched-up Etch-a-Sketch that can't decide if it's a cell phone or a laptop.

Birthday presents aren't supposed to be _useful_, anyway, are they? They're supposed to be random crap that you don't need but that people get you because they like you or whatever. (Not that I like Sam. Can't stand him most of the time. Kid's always bitching and whining and nagging me about my upstairs brain or my arteries or what's going to happen to my blood sugar if I don't stop eating jelly donuts for breakfast. But, you know. It's his birthday.)

And I _really_ should walk away from that display of tablet computers and tell the girl that, cool though they are, I came here to get my brother a cell phone and I'm _getting _him a bloody cell phone.

But then she's asking me whether Sam spends most of his time in places with high-speed Wi-Fi.

"What?" I ask, not sure what the hell _that _has to do with it.

"Well, I'm guessing he _doesn't_, since you said he uses his cell phone for the Internet. Does he travel a lot? And spend a lot of time in places out of Wi-Fi range?"

Out of Wi-Fi range? Are you freaking _kidding _me? Sam and I spend most of our time on the other side of nowhere, living in motels that barely even have hot water, leave alone decent connectivity.

"No," I say. "He doesn't. But –"

"Great. So you don't really have to worry about 3G. Now, about models… Do you know what your brother likes?"

I need to _stop_. I need to get Sam a bloody cell phone and get out of here –

Really, why _shouldn't _I get Sam a tablet? Big brother's prerogative, right, spoil the kid every chance I get?

* * *

It's official. I'm the easiest con on the planet.

I paid seven hundred dollars – seven _hundred _freaking dollars for the thing and I don't even know if Sam's going to like it.

When I got back, Bobby was out and Sam was closeted in the library working his way through some Ancient Greek account of the Mother of Monsters, so I shoved the box under my bed and then went to see if Sam wanted to take a night off.

Sam didn't.

And now it's the middle of the night, and I'm lying in the dark listening to his breathing from the next bed. It's pretty early for Sam to be asleep, actually, just going on midnight, but I'm not complaining. After six freaky months of waking up and finding that the other bed hadn't even been touched…

I sigh and try to settle down.

But it's no use. Half an hour later, I still can't sleep. There's too much going on… Eve and the Civil War upstairs and all the other screwed-up elements of our screwed-up lives… And then there's the box under my bed, done up in blue wrapping-paper. It's my first attempt to give Sam a birthday present in – What? Ten years? It's going to _really _suck if he doesn't like it.

I get up, go over to sit on the edge of Sam's bed, and poke him awake.

Sam opens his eyes, looking worried for a moment before he registers that it's me and I'm not panicking or in pain.

"What the hell, Dean?" he grumbles, rolling onto his side to face away from me.

"I can't sleep."

"Then go count sheep or drink warm milk or something. What are you waking _me _up for?"

"I want to talk to you."

"About _what_?"

"About your birthday. It's next week. What do you want to do for it?"

"_What?_" Sam rolls back over and stares at me. "My _birthday_? Dean, are you OK?"

"I'm _fine_, Sam." Really, how tragic is it that I ask Sam what he wants to do for his birthday and he thinks I'm trying to be funny? "I'm serious. What do you want to do?"

"Kind of got our hands too full to do anything, haven't we?"

"We always have our hands full," I point out. "And I think you're entitled to have a day off for yourself."

"Do you?"

"Sam, I swear, if you start on some guilt trip now…"

"Sorry," Sam says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "It's just… We haven't made a big deal of birthdays for years."

"_You_ always get _me_ something."

Sam shrugs. "Yeah, well… Bad things don't happen to people you care about on _your _birthday."

"Sam."

"Look, I don't want to, OK? It's just… There are too many unpleasant memories. Dad dying, me dying, you dying… It's not exactly a day I like thinking about."

"Too bad. It's a day _I _like thinking about."

"Dean –"

"Shut the hell up, Sam. It's the day I became a big brother."

"Dean, _please_. I just… I _can't_."

He sounds so miserable, so broken, that I don't have the heart to push the issue. For a minute we just sit there quietly, occupied with our thoughts. Then I hear a soft sniffle from Sam.

"Sammy?" He's turned away from me, looking out the window at the night sky. "Sammy, what is it?"

"N-nothing. I'm fine."

"_Sam._" I use my best big brother tone, strong and firm but supportive. Sam just shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. "C'mon, kiddo. Talk to me."

"You _died_," Sam says, sounding like someone ripped out his heart and stomped on it. "The hellhounds came and I tried to save you but I couldn't and you _died_. And – I _can't _do anything, Dean. I just can't. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, OK," I say gently. "I get it." And I do. If someone asked me to do something fun on the anniversary of the day Sam and Lucifer went down into the Cage… All the same, it's a little unfair if Sammy can't ever get to have a fun birthday again.

The glint of the clock's hands catches my eye. It's just past midnight. April 28.

Nothing especially bad ever happened on April 28, did it? I mean, nothing worse than usual.

"Hey, Sammy," I say, nudging him with my elbow. "What about right now?" Sam looks puzzled, and I say, "You know, _today_. We've been hanging around here for days. We could use a day off. So how about we go to Sioux Falls, just you and me, and have some fun? I'll even go to the library and the bookstore with you."

"Dean, you don't have to –"

"I know I don't have to. So how about it?"

"OK," Sam says, almost smiling now. "Yeah, OK. Today's OK."

"Good. Then, since we're having your birthday early this year…" I reach over, rummage under my bed and pull the wrapped box out. "Happy Birthday, kiddo."

"_Dean!_" Sam sounds as delighted as a five-year-old on Christmas morning. "You got me a present!"

"Got ten years of no presents to make up for, don't I?" I give him the box. "Open it."

Sam doesn't open it. He just turns it over in his hands, looking at it with such contentment that I can't believe he's going to be twenty-nine in a couple of days. If this is all it takes to make the kid happy, I can give him presents every _week_.

"Go on," I urge, and Sam rips the paper off.

When he sees what's under the paper, he's expressionless and for a moment I'm panicking. What if it's the wrong kind? What if it doesn't work? What if –

And then the box has been put carefully on the bed and Sam's hugging me.

"Sammy?"

"You're _awesome_," Sam says, sounding as fierce as though he's ready to take on anyone who disagrees with him. (And, hey, _I'm _sure not disagreeing.) "Best big brother _ever_."

"Really? Just because of an iPad?"

Sam chuckles, hands fisting in my shirt like he's never going to let go. "Yeah, just because of an iPad. I know how much you hate going into electronics stores."

And I do, mainly because you go in wanting to buy a cell phone and leave with a tablet computer that you don't need. Sammy usually does the shopping for phones and laptops and anything else we need.

"Well, if you were actually a _guy_ I could just get you a bottle of Scotch, but since you're a girl _and _a dork…"

Sam laughs again, not bothering to respond beyond snuggling more comfortably against me. I let him be for a couple of minutes before I shake him. "OK, Samantha, moment's over. Time to stop being a chick and get some sleep so you can be up bright and early tomorrow."

Sam lets go, but he's smiling at me – actually _smiling_ – and it isn't because of the present. Or not _really_.I could probably have given him fifty cents wrapped in a scrap of newspaper and he'd still have thought I was awesome.

But why think too much about it? Sam's happy. That was really all I wanted to achieve.

* * *

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	16. It's Just Cas

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Cheryl. _Big _thanks to Cheryl, because without a couple of well-timed comments from her, this story would never have been written.

Thanks to my wonderful reviewers: jelpy1, SandyDee84, fanotheboyz, cold kagome, Kyelinn, cookjar, Our Eleventh Hour, Nyx Ro, BranchSuper, Kali1973, godsdaughter77, angeleyenc, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, Scribble2Much, Buckeye mom, twomoms, jensengirl4eva, Brielle-W, Jane88, TinTin11, Sparkiebunny and Jianali.

**Summary:** Tag to 6.20, _The Man Who Would Be King_. After Cas leaves, Dean reflects.

* * *

**It's Just Cas**

So that's that. Cas is going to do what he has to do, and I'm going to do what I have to do, and… That's all there is to it.

Funny thing is, I'm not worried.

Castiel was full of it. He's an Angel of the Lord; I'm a weak, powerless human being; it's a no-contest. That was what he said, anyway. But then… He's forgetting something. (He's forgetting a lot of things, including how it's stupid to work with demons, but it's just the one thing I'm talking about now.)

I leave the room. I need to go upstairs to check on Sam. If Cas could come to _me_…

Cas is forgetting that _this_ isn't like manipulating us into breaking the seals. We might just be human, but we're not stupid, and Sam and I have both learnt a very important lesson from that. We do _not _keep things from each other.

Well, _sometimes_ we do. _Sometimes_ Sam asks questions like, "What the hell were you doing with my laptop, Dean?" or, "You didn't hit on the _one _woman we've met for weeks who hasn't been trying to kill us, did you, Dean?" or, worst of all, "What happened in that year I can't remember, Dean?" At such times it's perfectly justified to lie.

On the whole, though, we don't lie to each other. Not about important stuff. (For the record: what Soulless Son of a Bitch did before I put Sammy back in him is _not _important. No matter what Cas says about it, he wasn't Sammy. Therefore he does not matter. It's simple.)

What Cas is forgetting is that _this_ time, Sam and I are together. We're in it to the end, and we're going to have each other's backs to the end. Sammy – who, in Cas's view, is even weaker than I am – beat _Lucifer_. And all he needed – the only thing he had to fight with – was the knowledge that I was there and I trusted him and I wasn't going to leave him.

So, Cas? A bit less overconfidence. I'm not saying we're definitely going to be able to Molotov your ass, but we're sure as hell in with a fighting chance.

Nope, I'm not _really _worried about what Cas is doing – we've been Hunters' Emergency Response for _years _now. Mopping up after rogue supernatural beings who are trying to end the world is really nothing new.

That it's _Cas _doing it… That's another story. Cas knows how I feel about betrayal.

I open the bedroom door as quietly as I can and slip in. Sam's fast asleep, snoring softly. No nightmares. Good. The kid needs whatever rest he can get. We're in for a rough time.

Cas looked like he was expecting me to hit him, or at the very least to call him a lot of unpleasant names, when he showed up to talk. To _explain_. He had good reason: I'm not known for pulling my punches. He's seen me snap at Bobby on occasion, and he's seen Sam take a lot more than just verbal abuse. He was probably waiting for me to raise a fist so that my knuckles could break against his jaw and he could smirk about his own awesomeness.

First, I'm _really_ not that stupid.

Second… It's just _Cas_.

I know, I know. I'm not making any sense. I hate being betrayed by people I trust. I don't trust that many people and I let Cas in. And he betrayed me. So why am I not more upset?

It sucks, and it hurts more than I like to admit, and I'm sure I'll be scarred for life or whatever.

But still… It's just Cas.

"Sammy?" I say softly. Sam goes from sleeping to awake-and-deadly in a split second. He looks at me, figures out that this is _another _occasion when I've woken him just _because_, and sighs.

"_What_, Dean?" he asks wearily.

"It's just Cas," I say.

Sam looks bewildered. Obviously; even he, Supergeek though he is, can't read my mind, and so to _him _it's just a random remark from middle of nowhere. He also looks a little apprehensive, like he thinks I've woken him to deliver a soliloquy on how we should still be giving Cas the benefit of the doubt.

"That's not what I mean," I say. I intend to say a lot more; it's only when I sense movement and see Sam looming in front of me (freaking _giant_) that I realize I've fallen silent.

Sam claps me on the shoulder, hesitantly, like he's afraid I'm not going to like it. "I'm sorry, Dean. I know you trusted him."

"Yeah. I did."

Sam hears what I don't say. His hand rests on my shoulder and squeezes briefly. "I've got your back."

"I know."

I can't quite hide the quiver in my voice, and before I know it Sam's hugging me, almost doing irreparable damage to my ribs. I don't even try to put up a token struggle – this is Sam, there's no part of me he hasn't seen, and I don't have to pretend. I let my head rest on his shoulder, tucked under his chin (it's not _my _fault he's so freaking _tall_), listen to him telling me it's going to be OK, and, just for a moment, I let myself believe it.

_This _is why.

This is why, even when I heard exactly what Cas had done, I didn't feel like throwing punches. Part of it involved not wanting to break my hand. Part of it was not being entirely certain whether Cas would just _let_ me do it the way Sam did. (Because, really, who am I kidding? Sam's good enough to duck out of the way of a couple of right hooks if he wants to.)

But the rest of it? The rest of it was that the idea of Cas not being on my side didn't bring on the panic and horror and _nonononono _that I felt when I thought Sam might prefer Ruby's company to mine.

"It's just Cas," I repeat, a soft whisper that's mostly addressed to Sam's collar.

Sam says nothing, but I know he understands.

Cas was a like a brother to me. He was the closest thing I have to family. I trusted him with my life. (More importantly, I would've trusted him with _Sam's _life – not a mistake I'm going to be making again.)

But that was all Cas was.

And although it sucks that he's turned rogue on us, although it sucks that he seems to have _completely _misunderstood the concept of free will, although it sucks that that's _another _friend I can't trust, it could have been worse.

Sam lowers me to my bed. When I snag a handful of his shirt on the way down, he doesn't say a word. He just leans over to take off my boots and then settles himself on the edge of the bed. I know he'll sit there till I fall asleep and even after that. He'll be there all night if that's what I need.

It could have been so much worse.

* * *

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	17. Fallout

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

**Author's Note:** So… I decided to give _Let It Bleed _a miss for the tags, because while I'm sure it's all very tragic and we should feel for Dean having to say goodbye to Lisa and Ben, I'm just glad they're gone. (I know. I'm heartless.) And I was in two minds about _The Man Who Knew Too Much_, but this kind of popped into my head.

This might be the last update to this series for a while. But I do have a couple of longer fics planned for the summer hiatus, the first of which should start going up in a couple of days. (And that's going to be my first serious attempt at writing entirely from Sam's point of view.)

Thanks to Cheryl for the help and for the title suggestion.

Thanks to Kathryn Marie Black, cold kagome, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, Sparkiebunny, cookjar, fanotheboyz, godsdaughter77, BranchSuper, SandyDee84, doyleshuny, TinTin11, jensengirl4eva, Scribble2Much, Jane88, CeCe Away, angeleyenc and casammy for the reviews.

**Summary:** Sam's sleeping. Some kid left a book in the motel room. After the events of _The Man Who Knew Too Much_, Dean reflects.

* * *

**Fallout**

A is for Apple. And Angel.

Most of all at the moment, A is for Anger.

As in, the emotion that I _would_ be feeling right now if my heart had any place for anything other than worry about Sam.

I don't mean that I'm not angry. I'm furious, beyond furious, and if I ever get my hands on Castiel I will do things to him that'll make Alastair seem like the Good Witch of the North. (I was going to say Santa Claus, but we've _met_ Santa Claus.)

_Sammy._

_Oh, God, Sammy._

Sam rolls over, like I disturbed him by thinking too loudly. I reach out and rub his back. He settles down with a mumbled, "Dean," and I feel an ache in my chest.

B is for Betrayal.

And for Brother.

Sam's fast asleep on his front, one hand flung out towards me, and he looks vulnerable and adorable and _young_.

_How?_

I don't get it. I really don't. I might've understood Cas hurting me, or even Bobby. I wouldn't have _liked_ it, I probably wouldn't have forgiven it, but I could have comprehended it. I can't _begin_ to wrap my head around how _anyone_ can _deliberately_ hurt Sammy and not feel like they've kicked a newborn puppy.

B is also for Book, the A-B-C book I'm reading. Some kid left it in the motel room and I grabbed it, because I had to do _something_ to keep from going crazy. And I couldn't bear to touch Sam's books without being able to tease Sam about being a geek.

C is for Comfort, the comfort I wish I could give Sam but I can't because of…

Oh, yeah. C is also for Castiel. And for Crucifixion, which is the _least_ of the things that's going to be happening to that son of a bitch when I get my hands on him. And _Cage_, which is where I'm going to _shove_ him when I'm done.

Sam shifts restlessly in his sleep. I reach out and palm his cool cheek, letting my fingers rest there long enough for the flickering behind his eyelids to stop. The one good thing this whole freaking mess is that Sam's still coherent enough to be responsive to _me_.

D is for… Demons, I guess. The things I hate a lot, since they killed Mom and Dad and Jessica and, that one horrible time, Sammy. (Although I don't hate them as much as I do Castiel. I know what I said about blanket apologies, but some things don't get forgiven. Are you _listening_ to me, you evil son of a bitch?)

D is kind of for Dean, too. Because that tends to be the only word Sam can get out when he's really tired or really hurting. _Dean_, choked and painful, to tell me when he's injured; _Dean_, desperate, when something's strangling him and he needs me to shoot it; and _Dean_, soft and low, when whatever I'm doing to help him is working and he wants to tell me how awesome I am.

E is for Eleanor Visyak.

I want to feel bad about her. I _really_ do. She was nice enough, she didn't yell at me, maim me or try to kill me, and Bobby liked her. Than in itself should be enough for me to mourn her.

But there's just no _place_ left in my heart to mourn. Everything that there is – everything that _I _am – is taken up with _Sammy_ and _Please be OK_.

Sam rolls again, towards me this time. It's a king-sized bed (last one left in the motel) and he ends up close enough for me to run a hand through his hair while I flip through the book.

F is for Family. Right now, the future of mine is looking bleak.

Sam's strong – I _know_ he is – but I also know_ exactly _how much Hell can torture a person, and Sam's experience was so much worse than mine.

Sam shifts nearer, and who am I even trying to fool? I slide my hand under his back, lift him as much as I can – he's freaking _heavy_ – and settle him against my chest. I don't know if it'll help him, but it helps _me_. As long as Sam's close, as long as I can feel his pulse and his breath tickling my neck, I can keep from going crazy.

G is for Gigantor.

Sam's _big_, and while I'm usually happy about that, because sheer muscle mass makes him a harder takedown for random monsters, which leads to more peace of mind for _me_, at times like this I wish he were little again.

Little, the way he was when he was four years old and came to me with a scraped knee and looked up at me with those great big dewy eyes like I was the answer to everything. When he was that little my promises were enough to make him feel safe, and my arms around him were enough to make the nightmares go away.

H is for Heartbeat, Sam's, steady and reassuring under my hand.

H is for Hugs.

Which, by the way, we're totally _not_ having. I am _not_ hugging Sam. I might have my arms around him, and his head is kind of on my shoulder, and _maybe_ I'm sort of supporting his back (because the last thing we need is Sam whining about _backache_), but that doesn't mean I'm _hugging _him.

H is also for Hurt, which Sammy is. It's tearing me apart to see him like this and not be able to give him more than moral support.

H is for Hell, which is where a certain angel is headed if _I _have anything to say about it.

I is for Ignorance.

The kind that's bliss.

The kind that Sam _had_ and I would've sold my soul all over again to keep him from losing.

The kind that _I _had, back when I felt I was the unluckiest guy on earth for having been forced to endure forty years under Alastair's knife. I'd do it again, a hundred times over, to spare Sammy.

Sam whimpers, and I almost burst into tears.

I is for the Impala, now in Bobby's yard. She needs fixing, and I'm going to do it just as soon as Sam's ready to go back to Sioux Falls and sit on the porch steps and watch me work.

J is for Jessica.

The girl I took him away from all those years ago. The girl he never talks about. The girl who could have given me a bunch of nephews and nieces to love as much as I love Sam.

Sam's called her a couple of times in his sleep tonight. I hope to God he's not going to forget that she's dead, because if I have to tell him that – if I have to break his heart all over again…

Sam mutters, but this time it's, "Dean." This is the inflection that means he's having bad dreams, and I rub his back.

K is for King of Hell, Crowley, the guy who _used_ to be Number One on the list of people I'm going to subject to a slow and painful death. Kept that spot for a whole five days, until Castiel decided to take up spots One to Ten and push Crowley to Number Eleven.

Sam's warm. I can smell his aftershave and that herbal shampoo that he claims isn't girly. Right now it's hard to believe that the comfortable weight in my arms can turn into two hundred and twenty pounds of lethal, kickass hunter.

L is for Love.

The word I've said to all the people who've ever been second-most-important, because I know it makes them feel good.

The word I've _never_ said to the person who's always been my reason for living. Because he knows.

Sam sighs softly. I wonder what he's seeing now. Maybe he's been lucky enough to catch a break and it's just a normal bad dream – bogeyman, evil clown, that history teacher he was terrified of in junior high.

Love, the word Sam's said to _me_ because sometimes even the Awesome Dean Winchester is insecure.

The word I'm going to say to him as soon as he's awake. Because I know he's my reason for living and _he _knows he's my reason for living but he needs to know I know. Or something of the kind.

M is for Motel.

Specifically, the Green Mile Motel, which is where we're staying because Sam gave me that big, wide-eyed look that said he didn't want to go back to Bobby's. And I got it. Bobby's awesome, Bobby's the closest thing we have to family, but…

But there are still some things Sam doesn't want anybody but me to see. Like the breakdown he had as soon as I'd shut the motel room door behind us.

M is for Misery, a word Castiel is going to be able to redefine. After he redefines Grovelling, which he's going to do to Sam.

N is for Nightmares.

Like this one.

Sam starts to thrash. I restrain him – gently – and whisper to him, and after what seems like hours he settles down. He mumbles my name and clutches my arm. He's _strong_, but I care jack squat about the bruises he's going to leave.

"Hey, kiddo," I say softly. "You OK? You were just dreaming. You're safe, Sammy. I'm here."

Sam blinks his eyes open and smiles up at me with all the trust of a child, and it's all I can do not to crush him to my chest.

O is for Offense, Criminal. The kind that gets you sent to Maximum Security instead of letting you get off with half an hour of community service.

Of course, Maximum Security's _nothing_ compared to what I have planned for Castiel.

O is for Obituary, the section of the paper that Sam would've been reading to find us a job if Castiel hadn't thought it would be a good idea to knock the wall down as a _diversion_.

I wonder how they'd write those in Heaven. "Castiel, aged five billion, died in a violent and painful manner as a result of messing with Dean Winchester's little brother. Anyone else who tries to mess with Dean Winchester's little brother will join him." Sounds about right.

P is for Puppy-Dog Eyes.

Sam's giving me those, because I'm frowning. I'm sure he doesn't think I'm mad at him (even Princess Samantha can't imagine that I'm mad when I'm _cuddling_ him).

No, these are Sam's cheer-up-because-I'm-with-you eyes.

God, _just_ when I thought it wasn't possible to love the kid more…

I hug him, fierce and tight. He squirms a little, and I loosen my grip just enough to let him breathe, but I don't let go. I _can't_ let go.

P is for Pulse, Sam's, a quick but blessedly strong rhythm under my fingers.

P is for Prayer, which I totally don't believe in but I will totally do if it means someone up there will help my brother.

Q is for Quiet, which is what my life has been. Horribly so.

Much as I gripe at Sam for talking too much, I always miss his voice when he's not around. Missed it when we were kids and Dad and I left him alone to go on a job. Missed it when he was off at Stanford. Missed it for the three days he was dead. Missed it when I was in Hell. Missed it when he was in Hell. Missed it when I was living with Robo-Sam, who was super-efficient but never chattered the way my little brother did.

I miss it now.

I miss the bitchfaces and the rolled eyes and the random bits of pointless trivia he keeps pushing at me. I miss him snickering when a girl has such bad taste that she doesn't respond to my flirting. I miss _him_.

R is for Raphael, the word that Cas seems to think is an excuse for everything.

My back is starting to protest. I'm not exactly seventeen, Sam's _heavy_, and practically all his weight is on me. But that's OK. It's unlikely that he'll be ready for a long drive tomorrow, so we're not going anywhere. He's not even ready for me to leave him alone for half an hour to hit a diner.

Sam looks more peaceful now than he has for hours, and I know it's because of me.

That makes me feel pleased and proud and thrilled to bits. I'm a big brother, and if I'm doing that job right, then everything else can go to hell.

S is for Sammy. And Sasquatch. And Soul.

I never realized just how awesome the letter S is.

Sam's starting to fall asleep again, but, thank God, he seemed more lucid for the few seconds he was awake. That means he's getting better – for now, at least – and _that _means that – for _now_ – I can concentrate on other things, like eating and drinking and figuring out ways to make holes in the new and better version of God.

I made the mistake of thinking out loud about what I was going to do to Castiel the last time Sam was having a lucid spell.

Sam gave me that _look_, and I said, "Come on, Sammy. You can't be feeling sorry for Cas."

"This isn't about Cas," Sam said. "It's about _you_. You can't _do _that to yourself."

I let it go, because I didn't want to worry him, but you know what? Cas hurt my baby brother, and so I totally, _totally_ can.

T is for Torture.

And Sammy in the Devil's Cage.

Sam, not quite under yet, snuggles into my chest. There's no way I can hold him any tighter without cracking his ribs, so I rest my cheek on his head.

At that opportune moment, my cell phone chirps. I ignore it. It can't be from Sammy, because Sammy's right here and he wouldn't need to text me and his phone is on the table next to mine in any case. It's probably Bobby saying something about how to track down Castiel.

Much as I want to hunt him down and make him pay, that isn't important right now. The other half of my soul is battered and bleeding – but not broken, thank God – and there's no way I can do _anything_ until he's back on his feet.

T is for the Tears Sam lets slip when he thinks I'm not looking, and _damn _it if they don't make me angrier than anything else.

U is for Unforgivable.

I wasn't lying to Cas – he _was _family. He _was _like a brother to me. I would've done as much for him as I would've done for Adam. I would have _died _for him, I would've forgiven him just about anything.

Hell, I trusted him with _Sam_. I trusted him so much that I let him plunge his hand into Sam's chest to touch his soul.

And he hurt my Sammy.

He hurt my Sammy as a _diversion_. To keep me occupied so I wouldn't mess with his stupid master plan. He made Sam relive the kind of pain no human being has _ever _known before, and that is the one thing I cannot forgive.

While I'm on the subject…

V is for Violation of trust. Violation of Sam's _mind_.

The problem isn't so much that Castiel proclaimed himself God when he was juiced up on millions of souls. That was probably the angel equivalent of drunk, and people say stupid crap when they're drunk.

The problem is that when he _wasn't_ juiced up on millions of souls, he thought it was a good idea to do possibly irreparable damage to Sammy's mind as a freaking _diversion_.

Son of a _bitch_.

V is for the Violence that happens to people who lay their filthy fingers on Sam.

W is for the War that led to this stupid plan of Castiel's in the first place. Stupid angels can't keep their stupid family squabbles in their own stupid backyards. Oh, no. They drag us into their infighting _once_, and when Sam beat the hell out of Lucifer (and _that _is how I know Sammy's strong enough to beat _this_) they just decided that they were getting a do-over.

Sam pats my chest sleepily.

W is for Warmth, the heavy bundle of it in my arms. Sam's always been a furnace, and when he's hurting he starts running a low-grade fever and practically _radiates _heat.

I love it. It means he's still with me.

X is for… well, X isn't for anything. It's just X, a great big fat red one on Castiel's trench-coated back.

"Dude?" Sam slurs. "What?"

"Just waiting for you to fall asleep, kiddo," I reply soothingly, because, like I said, there's no sense worrying Sam. He can't change what I'm going to do to Castiel. All he can do is feel stupidly guilty, like it's somehow _his_ fault for having sacrificed himself to save the world.

Sam looks like he doesn't believe me, but he also looks like he's too tired to argue. After a moment, he shrugs and snuggles down again.

Y is for Yawning, which Sammy is doing now, mouth open wide as it'll go. It's as ridiculous and as cute as a puppy.

I laugh – _really_ laugh, for the first time in days – and start rocking him a little. He makes a muzzy protest that I completely ignore, and finally decides to stop talking and roll with it.

Sam's fingers tighten around my shirt, just like they used to when he was a little kid and he came scurrying into my bed because he heard something moving in the darkness. And, just like then, I find myself believing that big brothers can keep the monsters away.

Z is for…

You know what? Screw the alphabet. Sam's sleeping peacefully. That's all I need.

* * *

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